Bonding And Discipline
by Albrecht Starkarm
Summary: Life's ambition is control: Of others, and of oneself. It is a wet and messy and disorderly system that aspires to perfection in its delirium. This desire is a self-defeating one; the act of ordering one's system is to introduce deeper entropy, wrought in carnal tyranny and lust.
1. Kybernetik

Humanity is something elementary. Reflect on the mechanics. It's meat. Bone. Blood. A bit of messy muddled subjectivities in the tissues nestled in your skull, but even when they slop out on the pavement, it's still just _there_. The flesh and the simple biology. There is reflex action; impulse and answer and it's something as fundamental as call-and-response. A touch is a quirk through the peripheral nervous system; it's a clutch of sprawling spidering roots, every one slipping slithering through the skin, the meat, even the bone. _Laced_ into your every reach. A graze, a stroke, a _caress_. It's something predictable. Everything in its gradation.

All is self-interest; all is atavistic. Pain and pleasure alike are little more than mechanistic, implements conceived to perpetuate the flesh. It's the frog's essence; it isn't a myth. To ease them into their own annihilation. Toss a frog into roiling water, and there'll be a quick straining rippling _lunge_. Muscle flares into irresistible violence. The figure bouncing springs from the pot.

Permit it to lurk in water merely patiently warmed, and it will boil itself.

Humanity boils itself with the supremest bliss in its own juices. You will flinch from the pain, yes, but the mind the strange squelching heap of meat between the ears, ah, _this_ is the water's patient caress. It is something malleable, mutable. An idiocy in its own intricacy; a computer altogether too fucking _grandiose_ for the soft wet machinery into which it's grafted. There is a passion, a fervor, _algolagnia_.

A lust for pain. Pretentious. It is. Our collective lust to gratify our intellectual affectations with a dead tongue that's still lolling out with an animal exhortation for something wet, soft, sumptuous. For the delirium the delectation in flavor.

We have not domesticated ourselves. The world lies prostrate in its simple animal reality; and still, still, still, it is to delude ourselves that we have surpassed this, that our meager architecture is geography. It is not.

We will all die.

Tiny deaths.

Glorious deaths.

We _feast_ on algolagnia. On sadomasochism; but there is a bliss, a _delirium_ , in this word, isn't there? Algolagnia? It is without affected artistic allusion; it is merely _exactly_ what it is. A _lust for pain_. Greek, fine. But, hell, what does it matter? The words were once spoken not with simpering pretension but only the heavy and the hot and the guttural; lovers would whisper it through the steeping wet Mediterranean darkness. Philosophers sodden addled with the wine that no amount of water can dilute into wholesomeness would _spit_ it at one another.

Generals would issue grandiose commands cradling figments of indelible _divine_ power in their hands and the sergeant's voice would be upraised, _All right, ya mufuckers! Stab them fuckin' Spartans. Put a Zeus-damned spear up somebody's ass today! Fuck._

Fuck.

" _F-fuck_." A whimper; a mewl.

Because Masoch was an ugly self-indulgent misogynist whose sense of women's power was still elementally their wickedness, if not their weak genuflection. De Sade, well, what a fucking edgelord _toddler_. Tedious pretensions of the decadent; a simple churlish zeal for scandalizing minds whose values were warped into Modern Art vicissitudes, unperturbed with a woman being broken on the wheel and broiled in a pluming hot pyre but _god forbid_ , indeed, god does forbid with the church's imprimatur, that anything as scandalous as _sex_ should be written.

A bit of torture? Passé; a banality beside the simple truth.

Reality is truth.

" _Fuck_!" But it's all just... Here. The simple _being_ in this. In the mind not numbed and not sharpened, either, but just _twisted_ battered broken into a garden of strange and senseless geometries. It is to know the unrealities that simply _are_ , because they can really only be admitted.

It is mincing through landscapes wrought in inscrutable opaque juices and in the _thought_ and in the confluence of the within and the without and the noumenon is immanent here; it _tyrannizes_ in this place, formless and without guise, without sensation, and still, still, it is _here_. A whisper; a breath. There is heat. A candle gutters with a conscious inkling of mortality; the wick is wooden, a sharp spearing bit of carnal parody, upraised and eaten, swallowed down down down while it gorges itself on its own flesh.

A cannibal Ouroboros.

" _Fuck_." There is not only heat; there is _dampness_. A candor, windows flung open to the city's intrusion, a sticky sodden aura wreathing the flesh. It is to know the night in its bubbling hungers; it is to savor its simple unpretentious depredations. It is humanity in its crammed supersaturated multitudes, every one wallowing in the stagnant summer swelter, unleavened with the rain that is only teased with the fan-dancer's grace, a _glint_ a _**glimpse**_ of flesh for a transient instant, and it is gone again. A cool kiss of wind through the opened balcony doors.

The candles inflame bare skin; the light is a glimmer like starlight flitting playful coiling _heavy_ over every fixture that rears up not into cold hard flat relief but a nebulous quirk in shadow's thickness and its thinning. It is geometry intuited in black water's shallows. The centerpiece, however, is an object of shame in its _absolutism_. It is to cast away the darkness' perfected grace, its inverted clarity, and to gorge itself on the explicit.

It is the sulfurous leaden fart like brimstone in a chamber wreathed with jumbled perfumes' distant and nebulous ghosts. The face is an equivocal and distasteful thing; the lips wriggle and ripple and strain and distend and the eyes are _snapped_ closed pursed more comfortably more _surely_ than the lips tumbling open trembling and crazed. The tongue tumbles out; it's something almost dainty, delicate, flitting over the chin slathered with spittle that's gathered in its effusion, with the sweat that creases the self-conciously cheap makeup adorning the cheeks furrowed with pain's convulsive strokes.

But the mind, ah, _you_ must understand, yes? There can really only be this. This perfect binary that still denies one half. It's something that _must_ be. It is an absolute. Pain is bliss with the appropriate incantations. With the gauzy fabrics curtaining the muscle's fine planes; with the long legs cradled in stockings taut and not merely lucent but simply _brilliant_ with sweat steeping through the nylon's every creamy reach.

The complexion tawny; the bone and meat and muscle hard in their relief through the skin that's straining with a violence rearing up a compulsion to retch to protest to struggle away from the pain but the mind, the mind, it is the _mind_ that is perhaps the disease. A metabolic disorder. A blood poison.

As surely and completely transformative as any other addiction. It is a will for more, more, more. Knelt now; the _thing_ there, the pathetic wriggling gastropod, it isn't a woman.

It isn't a man, either.

"Oh, look at _you_. Still petulant; still so goddamn _mouthy_ , aren't you, you piece of _shit_? You ridiculous degraded fuck-pig. That's all you are, isn't it?" The words are mine; they are my _monopoly_ in this place. Even the obscenity cannot be countenanced. It is, of course, visceral.

Natural.

A convulsion spurting through the autonomic nervous system.

I should be a fucking neurologist. This is _terra incognita_ ; this is our society's, our farce of a civilization's, delusion that there is nothing here. It is Where There Be Dragons. It is not painted upon a map; it is a void, an abyss where the mind dare not meander. There is a great deal of unexplored territory.

It is known. Intuitively, elementally, bubbling up from the fundament, it is perhaps so _native_ to the human spirit that it doesn't even merit academia's cold ambitions to conquest. To domesticity. For the flesh to be cowed like a dancing bear; to rear up and indulge you with a samba on command, ah, ah, maybe a waltz now, Ivan.

But it's all horseshit.

This is a wild and feral and frenzied thing. The figure is not large; it is not tiny. The proportions are meaningless because its servitude lies _deeper_ than any geometry. If it is ordered in this instant this strange moment of the sublime to carve open its own throat, perhaps the flesh's animal _need_ to survive will not accommodate it, but there will be...

A twinge.

For a moment.

It _is_ a possibility.

We have sought to carve reality into extremes; into the impossible and the possible. For there to be something Appropriate. And not. It is all context; we will wish to desomaticize the reality, and instead to substitute our own ideals even when the flesh protests otherwise. The flesh is the victor. Grandiose and glorious things die inglorious deaths in their collision with the simple _truth_ in meat and bone.

In blood.

In lust.

In craving.

In _hunger_.

It is not two semis in confluence; it is a terrible trundling misshapen evolutionary vestige, a _monster_ wrought in those depths that are never, felt never known, never tasted, the pre-sensual, the pre-sensory, the preconscious, an eldritch thing that light cannot kiss, a cave fish anachronism whose talons are only felt in their reflection their _tremor_ sympathetic and leaden and brutal through the flesh. And then there is the stained glass elegance as fucking _brittle_ as the first hardening slick of ice on a sheet of water.

The fist rears up.

The ice _disintegrates_ unnoticed.

This is the truth. We _are_ ; our every ambition, our every design, our every act is simply twisted to this. Every bit of civilization is about gratifying with orderly reliable predictable perfection this need. To procreate. And procreation has been programmed as bliss for us. A compulsion that cannot be reasoned out of being. There is no _thought_ that can overtake this.

It is only in its vicissitudes.

Even the most glorious mind will peer with dull-eyed glazed-over idiocy at the cyclopean screens throbbing _rich_ with reflected sex. Directed and prepackaged carnality in pornography, and there is still the simple voyeuristic giddiness puddling between your thighs.

But this is _not_ this.

Fingers groan with latex; thick lacquered crude distilled into its elemental obsidian perfection _painted_ taut and cinching and clutching over your hands' every inch, great diabolic gauntlets that coil serpentine up up up over the elbow, cinching into the biceps' tight muscled flesh. Knelt on legs that must be venerated, must be _worshiped_. They are not _sodden_ with strength now; it is less atrophy and more a surrender to the natural that is still superhuman. It is vanity.

Vanity, narcissism, it is this production's _essence_. To be conscious of their length; longer than long; enough for two or three or four women. The bustier _snapped_ into the body; tight-laced sartorial psychosis that still admits the breath that cradles the breasts pluming _exploding_ up in a creamy hot marshmallow effusion.

The nipples are only _intuited_ in the faintest peachy aura, a sunrise cresting those black hilly horizons.

You would taste the starlight if it were not for the mountains that obliterate every prickling point from your eyes.

You must not and _cannot_ touch them.

Stare down into the eyes; the lashes thickened with mascara, heavy prickling points that are still only a parody an _effigy_ of the natural feminine grace in anthracite quills. The shadow is painted smoke; the liner _runs_ with sweat, with tears, a studied deliberate _cheapness_. The rouge shimmers lambent with waxy gloss on the quavering lips.

The eyes bubble with sorrow; plead not for relief for reprieve but only for _more_.

We are a word. It is our essence. We are industrial humans, craving more, more, _more_. All-you-can-eat is the state religion; it is not Buddhism, not Shintoism. It is fucking _consumerism_. A palm _creeps_ over the flushed cheeks that make mockery of the blush smeared with the harlot's brazenness on the skin.

Fingers _cinch_.

Squeeze.

Another groan.

"You little _fuck_! Who told you you could even _breathe_ without my approval?!" A _crack_ ; a snap, a slap, it's your hand drawn back scribing a huge plunging _stripe_ over the figure's cheek. It does not _merit_ a name; it does not _warrant_ anything so grandiose as a face.

Stiletto heels _split_ the thick air like lightning skewering a heady pregnant darkness. A _crunch_ into the floor that's not tatami but ostentatious hardwood. It's a perfection for the little whore's knees; for their palms; for their fingers trembling, straining.

Rearing up and there is a command on my lips.

" _Lick_." A heel offered. It's muddled, strange, the tongue swept up and down and up and down along an ankle brandished. It is a sense of levitation; an unassailable balance. It is the kata's essence; a ritual perfection still steeped in bone and meat and sinew in their brutal _crunch_.

The figure _shudders_ ; the slender grace the sinuous muscle the spine arching the flesh tucked between its thighs clasped in panties sweat-blackened in their fine lace quavering.

"You little _whore_. You're _loving_ this, aren't you? It's just fucking _pathetic_. You're pathetic, aren't you? You don't deserve a name- stop licking my goddamn boot, you piece of _shit_!" A quick _stroke_ ; not a kick, no, no, no.

It isn't to _maim_. Not to kill when a committed blow will batter concrete into mist and powder.

When a fist can still warp metal into a graceful bowed ruin.

But it's still _violence_ ; still the belly _bruised_ with a chorus girl's nimble high kick.

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you? I told you to _lick_ ; not _keep_ licking. You disobedient _swine_." The wig heaped in its lavish soft satiny black luster's been disturbed, tousled. "And you can't even put on a fucking _wig_ right.

"You know, I don't think you're a very committed sissy, are you?" Knelt now. Hunched.

An impatient sigh flaring through the breast.

"I don't know why I bother with you. It isn't the money. Well, it is. It's the alchemy that turns _my_ time into indulgence. But... Why bother? Oh, I'll take your money. No refunds, you little _whore_." A palm on a cheek; not a slap, no, no, but it's the _bliss_ in reflexes twisted.

In a flinch.

In _fear_.

"Mmm... Look at _that_. Has it finally begun to _seep_ into you? The wisdom, now, little girl? Oh, look at that _flush_ ; look at those dazed glazed eyes." Lingering on every word. It isn't with a sense of urgency.

There is no transaction in this.

It is a _gift_ ; it is to implore Mistress Orchid to condescend to _squander_ her time. To ornament herself in fine latex; to perfume herself with sweat and desire.

There is hunger. It is something shackled, imprisoned in ice, but still, still, it _burns_ between the thighs. A fervor that rears up with every blow, with every groan.

Every bruise.

"You understand it, right? Your algolagnia, oh, what a delicious word... It's like a drug, isn't it? It just... _Creeps_ through you. You start with a little idle experimentation. A joy bang, as little Ayumi- _tan_ would say. But you keep going. First? Because it was just so _nice_ before. Why wouldn't you? Mmm. But then the _sickness_ sets in. It's just like heroin. It's there. In your veins, right?" Fingers softened with the latex graze.

Whisper over a brow.

The hips wriggle.

"You're just so _excited_ , aren't'cha? 'cause you _loved_ it with little Kazuha- _tan_ , didn't you? Oh, but you couldn't tell her _that_. Not when _she_ was so afraid. She remembers all of the soft little Sapphic manga strokes and...

"And kisses and cute little caresses from high school. Not that _I_ mind those with her. But not with you; not with a fucking _boy_. You're just fuck-pigs; you're sweathogs. That's _all_ you are. You and..." There is a word. It's a transmutation, a metamorphosis, sloughing off its dreamy opium-pluming chrysalis to expose the _reality_.

Pupating into a fucking _pejorative_.

Shin'ichi.

A spasm through the body; a lightning bolt _insanity_.

Rage.

"You fuck! You're all just _fuck-meat_. That's all you are. I don't want to sound like Ayumi, but it's true. That's _all_ you are. Boys? Boyz? You're _useless_. You're just heaps of desire, of meaningless idiot _craving_.

"You waste time; you eat and eat and eat. As- as bad as _girls_ are in the culture you've made, you're still the originals." It's not a slap now; not an open-palmed stroke. It's a closed fist.

There's a _groan_.

"F-fuck, fuck-"

"You little shit! Silence! I told you to stop _talking_!" Now, now, it's a _stomp_ to anoint a splayed palm in rich ruby anguish; not the heel, no, no, not the stiletto that could spear through tank armor. But the flattened sole and it's to be serenaded only with a mewl.

A whimper.

Lips _pursed_.

Quivering.

"A-ahn-"

" _Ahn_?" Linger.

 _Gloat_.

It is production. The bliss, the desire, the _fervor_ , they're not found in crude human geometries; they're not _tasted_ in the immediacies. It is something ineffable. The hips' cock; the brow's quirk; the fingers' _snap_.

"Was that an _ahn_ , sissy slut?"

Silence.

"I'll _permit_ you to speak, because that was just- just the most _adorable_ thing I've heard tonight. Speak!"

"Y-yes, Mistress Orchid. It was an _ahn_ -" Oh, but the _truculence_ in this sissy whore's voice dipping to a ragged hot _rasp_ like spit spurting up through coarse gravel.

"Falsetto. Falsetto!" It is not a command; it is nothing that would even credit this _slug_ with defiance's possibility. It is only what _must_ be; it is self-evident in this.

"Yes, Mistress Orchid!" It's a coo; a keen; the throat's still tormented but there's an authentic _frailty_ in it now. "Yes, Mistress Orchid. It- it was an _ahn_ -"

"It's so adorable. Aren't you just the cutest?" Silence; the eyes are downcast.

Dumb.

Animal.

 _Bovine_.

But there's a visceral knowledge lurking in the breast. Ah, ah, ah, this _awareness_ of penalty's immediacy. The lips strain; the jaws shudder.

"You can just stop, you know, little sissy slut? It's not as if you're my _captive_. Just say, _I'm done_ , and that's it. No more _Mistress Orchid_. No more... Of this." A sigh; slow, slow, slow, fingers slip slither _plunge_ through the sweat enameling his satiny sable skin.

A man's coarseness, maybe, but there's still something ineffably _womanly_ in it.

Delicious.

Well, girlish.

"Look at this _sweat_. You know, I _love_ girls who sweat. I don't hate the ones who _can't_ ; but a bitch who _prevents_ herself from sweating, well, that's just _diseased_. That's just _abhorrent_. Ain't it? Like Vermouth. _She_ refuses to sweat.

"She'd never be my type. She's just too fucking self-possessed. There's the arrogance, the- the _pornographic_ detachment, abstraction, in sex with her. She won't surrender herself to it. Not that I'd ever let you _fuck_ me again.

"Mmm... Unless it's with Kazuha- _chan_. Now _that_ was very nice. Too _bad_ she just doesn't understand that the _best_ sex leaves bruises; the _deepest_ passion bites to the bone. Right, _Hei-tan_? I expect you to fucking _speak_ -"

"R-right, right, Mistress Orchid." Such a _good_ little sissy.

But there's still a palm _cracking_ down on his ass; a wet brutal _slap_ like a cannon shell crashing through a serene cool pond.

A yowl.

A yelp.

Because pain is something irresistible, autonomic. Bloating burbling up through every nerve; _wringing_ the screech from the lips from the jaws the pain that becomes a _presence_ inflaming your lungs like napalm. And there's another blow, and another, and another, the ass absolutely bare, the candles' flit and flicker and play with a reedy crackle and staining his bronzed grace a deeper hue that's an invitation to verdigris' corruption.

But it is not here. It is perfect, shimmering, sodden, slathered over his skin.

Enriching me.

Enriching _him_.

Penalty and punishment and cultivation are as meaningful for the professor as the student.

"You may speak freely now, you sissy fuck-hole. Your silence _bores_ me, you piece of shit boy-meat."

"M-Mistress Orchid. Mistress Orchid." Whispering it; _cradling_ the syllables as a superstitious talisman. "Mistress Orchid, you're so pretty-"

"That's what you want to tell me? Jabbering at me like a fucking _toddler_? And _look_ at this thing between your thighs. Get on your back like a good little doggy." And there is obedience. "You disgusting fucking _bitch_. Look at you. Look at you.

"Degrading yourself." Legs and arms upraised; the hips wriggle with the dog's demented plea for adoration. But it would be wicked to abuse a dog.

A bitch like this?

Well, it's an invitation to a stiletto's _graze_ along the belly.

"Now, tell me, Hei- _tan_."

Silence.

A smile creases the lips; slow and treacly. It is poisonous; it is the essence of cobra venom weeped from a tigress' jaws.

"Tell me. What's your _desire_? Do you want it to end?"

"M-Mistress Orchid, I love it. I love to be degraded; I love to be abused; I'm your whore; I'm your slut; I'm your sissy _cunt_." Ah.

"Well, that's _something_. I'm not very persuaded. I'll see you later, Heiji-"

"I'm a worthless piece of shit! I'm unworthy!" While you're turned; while there's still a languid cant in the spine, in the cocked hips.

A wisdom of your own body, a supreme somatic _knowledge_ , framed between the candles littering the tables, the shelves, their shadow never darker than at their core. The voluptuous hips; the shapely legs; the high high high heels and the stockings reaching up up up, a delicious cinching _strain_ around the thighs, biting into that sleek fat and taut muscle.

The soft soft skin.

"I'm disgusting subhuman garbage; I don't deserve even to be in your presence. I don't deserve to lick your ass after you take the world's hugest grimiest shit! I- I should be trained for _years_ before I can even lick your toes after you've walked through mud!" It's _something_. But still, still, turned, there's an _opprobrium_.

"Oh, please. Anyone can _speak_ -"

"I'll prove it! I'll prove it!" While the shoulders still _strain_ ; while the spine has become an overstrung bow, tortured, heaving while the belly throbs in slim muscular firm definition and sleek tight skin and the eyes are crazed, wild.

Fingers tremble; toes quiver, splay out and narrow again into a likeness of fists in the sweat-darkened stockings.

"You'll prove it, huh? You'll prove it? Please. You can't _prove_ you're a piece of shit. Don't you understand? You _are_ ; that's it. It's like proving the sun rises. It just _does_ , Hei- _chan_ -"

"I'll- I'll wear whatever you want; I'll _do_ whatever you want; I'll _be_ whatever you want." The eyes are steeped with panic; the lips grope for purchase on language, on the _perfected_ pusillanimous pathetic groveling, on the sonic genuflection that will mollify this deepest cruelty.

"Do you know about noumenon?"

"The- the Pokémon-"

"Goddammit, you're stupid!" Wheeling around; a heel _jabbed_ into the left kidney.

"W-wah!"

"You _are_ stupid; you're just boy-meat. You're just fuck-meat. That's _all_ you are. Look at that disgusting fucking _cock_." It's not foot-fetish indulgence; it's not grazed oh so _delicately_ with lingering manga-perfect veneration over its straining flesh. It is a _stomp_ ; the heavy meat's slapped against his belly; the proportions taut overwrought they're _bowing_ , rearing, up elbows upon knees clattering together with a sharp _crack_.

"W-wah!"

"What? Were you expecting a nice little footjob, Hei- _tan_?"

"N-no, no, no, Mistress Orchid! You'll punish me like I deserve! I- I trust you!" With flesh _seamed_ now with its simple violence; with every rippling with an anxious intensity that is the body's, even while the eyes, stupid, stupid, stupid, have _melted_ into...

Something religious.

Yes.

Ayumi would approve.

A _surrender_.

It is faith.

"Really?" And so now, now, it is the sole _brushed_ over that ridiculous thing.

Idiocy's locus.

Desire's nexus in flesh and spirit.

A long slow _caress_.

Ground against his belly.

"What a _good_ little doggy. Or at least, you _bark_ well on command. Do you mean it? What you said?" The stiletto _skewers_ now. "Here. Hold your little tail up for me." It is obedience.

Immediate.

But there is fear, also. It's not only the dog's senses that _taste_ this terror; it is the wolf's, the tiger's, the _beast_ 's. Yes. Yes. A tendril stitching together those great throngs. Trembling fingers _clutch_ at that cute _generous_ bulk; not colossal, no, no, no, but the thickness is something lovely. _Rearing_ up; hungering; drawn tight against the belly, an ordeal in the quavering wrist to urge it up up up.

And the stiletto is _tucked_ into the slit; into that ridiculous guppy mouth forever groping at more more more. Squelching into the rheumy juices, the lubricious tears that weep out.

A groan; a gurgle.

Everything is simply _enameled_ on the lust, on the fuck compulsion that gathers thickens between your thighs. A shiver, a shudder, it's something that cannot be exposed with candor to a slave, no, no, but it _is_ there. It surpasses anything as prosaic as exhilaration.

It is no simple excitement. It is tasting the familiar orders riven open battered, broken, twisted apart. It is a Berlin Wall of priggery, of compunction, of childish absolutes _hammered_ into dust; it is curtained with napalm and extinguished and then anointed in white phosphorous. It is a sexual madness. It is jaws clenching.

It is fangs bared.

It is transgression without this word's idiot connotations.

Its convictions.

"A-ahn!" Squealing; squalling; it is to know the flesh _surrendering_ to the pain's will, to its force, to its authority, to its oppression its repression not merely without despair but with _bliss_. It is hatred; it is will; it is frenzy; it is madness; it is a relentless throbbing Arabic rhythm coiling up up up through the legs, _rising_ from the heavy hardwood and not taking root but just settling like nesting vipers in your belly.

"You piece of shit spoiled rich _fuck_. Look at this apartment; look at this penthouse. Mommy and daddy's beneficence. Rewarding you for being just so fucking _cute_ with your little detective game. But that's all it is, isn't it?

"Play-pretend. Just like... Like that heap of _shit_ pretender; that _poseur_." Wrath. Venom. It is the cobra's rage gathering in the jaws, _spit_ in the words that coalesce like strychnine gelatin. "You're all just so _pitiful_. Beneficiaries of convenience; of a credulous youth-venerating culture and a police department that's never met an easy answer it hasn't liked.

"Right? Happenstance; convenience; coincidence. More than anything, _conjecture_. That's what you call deduction. Fuckin' pathetic. I should rip this tail _off_ ; I should maybe split it in half. Would you like _two_?

"Wouldn't that just be the _cuuutest_ , Hei- _tan_? That's your name now; I'll write it with the kanji for _flat_. Isn't that nice? 'cause you don't have Kazu- _nyan_ 's rack, do you? Aren't you _embarrassed_? To be wearing such _sexy_ lingerie with a boy's body?"

"Yes! I'm so sorry!" The eyes are huge, wheeling, twisting, limning immense crazed orbits again and again and again. "I'm so sorry!"

"Are you? Are you _really_? How sorry are you, Hei- _tan_?"

"I-"

"You don't get a _pronoun_ , you piece of _shit_!" And the strain's _slackening_.

The pain's diminishing.

Shouldn't that be punishment's recession?

Ah, ah, you're finally paying attention.

"W-what should..."

"Exactly. Hei- _tan_ will call herself _Hei_ -tan. Or, well, whatever's cute. Aren't you just the _cutest_? Show me your tail, cutie. C'mon. Wag your tail for me, cutie. Wag your tail." Sneering. A bit of opprobrium that is _not_ play-pretend. "Good _cutie_."

"Hei- _wan_ ," oh, oh, _oh_ , yes, "Hei- _wan_ wantsta be all cute for- for Mistress Orchid."

"Then get on your knees, Hei- _wan_. What a _nice_ lil' bitch you are. Aren't'cha? Aren't'cha?"

"I wanna be the cutest." Far gone.

This is the phrase.

When knees crack and palms slap wet on the heavy hardwood.

When there's a waggle.

A wriggle.

"Good _girl_." Reward the little whore. And it's with exactly what she craves.

With a needling heel _stabbed_ into the ass.

With a wail.

A howl rearing up from her lips.

"W-aaaahn!" Crowing cawing howling; the spine arches; the body _heaves_.

"Good, good _girl_ -"

"It- it hurts so much, Mistress Orchid!" And there's no complaint.

"Too fucking _bad_ you're such a truculent noncommittal fuck-pig. You should grow that _long_ beautiful hair; that shimmering soft hair; that _perfect_ hair that's just... So deliciously _Japanese_. Pin-straight. Elegant.

"The tonsorial Yamato Spirit. Don't you want to be a Yamato Nadeshiko?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes." Wriggling wiggling _overheated_. Febrile and psychotic and it's a lie.

"It's a lie. You're not a _girl_ ; you're just a sissy faggot _fuck_." It's a blow. An authentic _slug_ ; not concrete-melting violence but a quick jab into the side and it's to know _defiance_. A defiance you've invited, you've commanded.

"W-wah, wah-"

"You won't _change_. Or should I just... Carve it off?" With fingers not slipping not easing not slithering just _snapping_ around _that_.

His cock pulsating between the knuckles; a knowledge of a strain, a plea, begging, beseeching and...

It's all so lovely.

"Should I just break it off? 'cause you're such a faithless little fuck-pig, aren't you? You won't leave Kazu- _nya_ for me, will you?"

"This... Hei- _wan_ can't! Hei- _wan_ can't-"

"Fuckin' _pathetic_." Not a _snap_.

As rewarding as it'd be.

Just a palm _hammering_ down on the plump ass' left cheek, and then the right; mmm, my, such an _exotic_ pattern, 'cause it's not the right and then the left again. Why not gorge yourself on asymmetry? Why not just _whale_ on the left, on evil's mythologized repository?

Right.

It should be the _right_.

A crack.

A snap.

A blow.

Beating.

Pummeling; spittle gathered in your mouth and _heaved_ out. Another layer of lubrication for the gauntlet that's _lovely_ shelter from anything like pain. For Mistress, anyway. Oh, oh, oh, for little wriggling wiggling Hei- _wan_ , it's anguish supersaturated.

The screams are protean sonic apparitions; are starlight nebulae flitting from distant galaxies, long dead when they creep into the senses, _skulk_ through your awareness. Beat and beat and beat and it's the right hand and now the left but it's _only_ the right cheek, pummeling more and more and more while the howls rear up up up.

More.

More.

Toes curling.

Shivering.

Jaw clenched and falling open and the tongue lolls out and, oh, oh, oh, it's something... Intuitive. A wisdom in experience's scope, in the variegated pitches, in the deep tortured lowing like an anguished calf springing up to a shriek like a kitten being fed through a meat-grinder.

Wailing.

Whimpering.

A palm _clasped_ around that nasty fucking _heap_ of meat.

"Don't you _dare_ come without my permission, you shit-heap." A command; a command. And still, still, the body is _weak_. Its defects must be corrected. A fingertip _jammed_ into the flesh coiling from its root to the ass' soft pert pucker and it's to know _divinity_.

I can _taste_ the wet sticky insanity in the eyes springing open; in the lunging hips springing not away from the blows but with pantomime carnality, pumping pumping _pumping_ while the body aspires to fulfillment to _empty_ itself with bestial fervor into a fictive lover. Sexual shadow-boxing; it is only instinct.

And it's instinct unconsummated. There's only perfect _nothing_ ; the flesh quavers strains _twangs_ , but whatever would be is simply... Suctioned back.

A horrible plangent groan from the lips.

"O-oh, oh, oh, what is that, Mistress Orchid?! It hurts; it feels so good-"

"It's retrograde ejaculation. A piece of shit like _you_ doesn't deserve to come. What? Did you think I'd just _ruin_ your orgasm? Please. It's _disgraceful_ enough that you'd disrespect me by coming without consent just by being _beaten_.

"But there must be _punishment_ for this. Pathetic. Just pathetic. All right. All right. Did you clean yourself, Hei- _wan_?"

"Yes. Yes. Hei- _wan_ is- is _all_ clean-"

"And you haven't eaten?"

"For- for a whole day." There's no more embellishment; a perfect _succinctness_.

"Good _doggy_." Another brutal _clap_ on his ass. A bliss at a glimpse of skin spidering with an unreal glimpse of contusion psychoanalysis; a Rorschach violence. Delicious; absolutely. Fucking. Delectable. Perfection.

Dipping down, down, down.

A _kiss_ ; oh, oh, but when the flesh is inflamed with anguish, it's withdrawal's cruel essence. It's junk-sickness; it's to know not the joy bang delirium in every nerve _shivering_ with twanging sensitivity but for even bathwater to be brutality, to be _affront_ to your very being.

It's a heave, a shudder; it's an awareness of a nausea retching, with shoulders rearing, with muscle and bone hurled into relief like tectonic convulsion, with the spine thrashing, with the body _tortured_ , the lips' graze ripping with serrated rust-encrusted claws down every. Fucking. Nerve.

"W-waaaah..."

"Don't you _dare_ puke-"

"W-won't. Hei- _wan_ won't- won't puke. Hurts. Hurts so much; hurts so _weird_ -"

"Why not _this_?" A kiss; a kiss upon that exotic mouth. Not a woman's, no, no. Nothing so beautiful. But sleek and satiny and _pink_. A palpitating fuchsia; yawning open and snapping closed with its own manic wisdom.

It's a pucker.

A tongue _jabbed_ there.

A gurgle.

"Don't you _dare_ laze around, you filthy fuck-pig!" While the body sags; while the shoulders slump down; while the palms _slip_ stained with sweat over the floor.

Straightening again.

"Ah, ah, _there_ we are. Let me _see_ just how clean you are." There is decorum.

Not for him.

Not for a _boy_.

But for Mistress. Blood is... Distasteful, you understand. It isn't even disease; isn't the microbial grotesque in it. It's _disagreeable_. Artless. It's the squelch and spatter in the lubricant's bottle snapped up, graceful beveled _discreet_ , an elegant convolution in roundnesses, fine shimmering points of light from the candles prismatic through its satiny lotion.

 _Poured_ down across fingers; over the ass.

His filth is not my concern.

"A-ah, ah, it's cold-"

"It _should_ be cold, you shit." The _slap_ is lubricated with more than spit now. And it's not merely the palm; no, no, no. It's a brush, a prod, a jab; it's a finger and now a second and now a third cohering into a wicked _angular_ geometry.

A gathered point pricking at that pucker.

And there is no gentleness at all. Just...

Impaling.

Stabbing down, down, down. Plunge and jab and skewer and _rip_ through him. The answer is not; it is the senses overtaken with a _blitzkrieg_ frenzy. It is a wet sticky sputter and squelch and it's his body _surrendering_ because there is nothing else to be done. It is gloved fingers melting into sleek greasy flesh; it is to taste with an exotic diffuseness every _bit_ , every quirk, every convolution; it is to know in an _instant_ that filthy fucking tail's root.

The prostate. Ah, ah, prostrate while his prostate is not kneaded not stroked just _prodded_ ; once and twice and again and again and satisfaction's already receding. Fucking him; fucking him. The fingers taste only a slackening in the body's play-pretend resistances.

It's only _bliss_ for him now, isn't it? Digging down down down deeper deeper deeper, well, why not a fourth?

A wail.

Warble.

"W-wah, ah, ah, it's- it's-"

"So _delicious_ , isn't it, Hei- _wan_?" While the body arches; not only the spine but _everything_. Head thrown back; toes curling; thighs shivering; ankles quaking; jaw clenched.

There is a mirror; it is something almost forbidden, and what is forbidden is savored with the supremest relish. It is to know the eyes' shy furtive flit; it is to _adore_ the shoulders heaving, the self-conscious sissy fervor to diminish the well-exercised strength.

The sweat-dappled wig half-curtaining the face; the vast velvet wavelets dappling the sumptuous bronzed flesh.

"Ah... Ahn..." This is the answer.

"Are you admiring your slutty face, Hei- _wan_?" While you _creep_ closer, closer. Up.

And up.

And up.

Latex-enameled tits _graze_ his shoulder.

"Well?"

"Y-yes, yes, I am, Mistress Orchid."

"Do you like it? Your rubbery lips _shimmering_ with the gloss; your body just _bathed_ in sweat. So indelicate. So _delicious_." Tongue indulging itself with a flit a flicker over his left ear. "Tell me."

"I do, Mistress Orchid."

"Four fingers in your slutty ass. And it's _still_ so loose. Have you been _playing_ with it? Answer me!" A _strain_ ; splitting them apart; fingertips _dagger_ into the wet clutching meat.

"W-wah! Yes! Yes! With- with Kazuha-"

"Oh, _really_. She likes _that_ kinda play, huh? She fucks your ass-pussy?"

"N-n-no, she doesn't. She just- she likes to touch it-"

"You're a failure as a man, you know. You're _shameful_ as a man. But that's fine. A man _is_ a shameful thing. A fucking _worthless_ thing. You're just meat; you're just grist for the Bushido mill. I wish you'd all been swept _away_ during the war. We beautiful women could've just savored an... An _idyllic_ land without you pieces of shit.

"Brought out some captive meat to breed with when we needed it. But with new technology, well, you're goddamn _obsolete_. Y chromosomes." Stab him; torment him; _twist_ the blade. "Are you gonna come soon?"

"I won't without your permission-"

"Yes, you will. You bitches _always_ do. What _every_ man craves is to be like a woman. Just... Just to _gorge_ yourself on it. Again. And again. And again. This nice little button here is _just_ like a clit." A finger's _prod_.

And now a _stab_.

And now it's not only one finger but _two_ ; whirl and coil and torment and torture and _delight_ and the eyes are vaster than twinned black oceans cradling a sulfurous thermonuclear sunrise.

The lips have abdicated any pretension of language.

"W-warghwahwawwahhhhahnnnn..."

"Gonna come?"

The head shaken.

No.

No.

 _No_.

"Oh, you're so _cute_. Aren't you? Aren't you? Aren't you just the _cutest_ little girl?"

"Hei- _wan_ wantsta be-"

"I'm gonna show you what it's like to be a _girl_ , then, Hei- _wan_. Oh, if only I had _more_ girls with me. Mmm... Maybe some nice boys. Would you like that? They _do_ have their uses, y'know. Maybe, oh, _big_ foreign men.

" _Colossal_ cocks. Black guys; or brown guys; or just _white_ guys hung like fucking sequoias. To split open your asshole like a cherry tree. _Right_ down the middle. To plant you between them; an _adorable_ sissy fuck-sandwich.

"Wouldn't that be the _cutest_? Oh, oh, but you don't visit Okinawa without some sata andagi, right? Who visits Tokyo without some bukkake? Wouldn't you _love_ that? Patient cute little slut in your costume? You'd need to kneel for them and offer your _adorable_ face.

"That beautiful Kansai complexion. A perfect bit of caramel for their cream. You'd love it, wouldn't you? Eating your bodyweight in jizz?" There's insanity in the eyes. Madness roils through its native ecology in the mirror's quicksilver glint.

In that cold leering eye; in its place of perfect candor.

Humanity is perfected there.

Its vanity and vice.

A finger _laced_ between the lips.

"Suck this cock, won't you?" Fine plump luscious; _alight_ with the gloss and fastening twisting coiling _imploring_ ; wet sticky messy sputters and spatters and it's to hook to _crook_ the finger. Jab it into his left cheek.

 _Pull_.

A fish hooked.

Strain.

Tug.

A groan and gurgle and now, now, well, it's to know your _supremacy_ in height; taller, taller still, six-something and _dwarfing_ the pathetic little waif.

"Wargh..." Tormented heaving heavy soft gasps and shivers and shudders and sighs and now, now, it's prodding, probing deeper.

 _Jabbed_ at the throat.

A gasp.

And the thumb has become companion to the four fingers.

 _Anguish_.

Delirium.

"W-wah-" There sound is something that defies anything like language; it's language's _denial_. Its renunciation in a crazed quaking algolagnia-fueled _drunk_ ; it is a haze; it is a histrionic tongue-lolling mist that converges with a clenching clutching compulsion to snap closed the jaw, to roar and heave and howl and _struggle_ against the intrusion. The four fingers are no longer four; it is the disparity between a mere island and then fucking _Australia_ ; dagger spearing stroking straining.

"Ah, ah, _ah_ , Hei- _wan_." An admonition, because this pain is _my_ bliss; it is the algolagnia's selfless selfishness; it is the binary perfection that is nothing so absolute, the unpretentious living duality that shudders in great quavering spurts and spatters, races, laces up through the flesh.

It is a possession. It is an immanence, _swallowing_ that deity and being swallowed in turn, also. An act of mutual surrender and mutual tyranny. It is the unpretentious juxtaposition in the celestial, in the _supernatural_. To know its tendrils scrawling through every inch; for the roots to _pour_ hot, urgent, bladed through every finger every toe; to _become_ it. It is to become the unknown, the ineffable, also; a reflection without guise, without shape, without light and shadow.

It is being without geometry; it is _this_ beast, this strange non-figure, this _essence_ wrought from the negative a dark-matter fabric to drape itself with your skin with the latex in its groaning wet luster effulgent with the lubricant with our zeal for better-living-through-chemistry, drunk on silicone and lust.

A _squelch_.

The hand pours deeper, deeper, deeper; it is a deluge crashing from its broken dam and into still tranquil waters. It is answered with terrible plangent lowing _despair_ ; with the wounded-calf tremor and gurgle and groan from the lips.

Fingers prod and jab at them, rubbery and tormented. Oh, oh, the _bliss_ in this. The supersaturated liquid-glass delectation that spills sloshes _sputters_ between the ears, behind the eyes. It is not a pornographic alienation; it is not a sense of abstraction. It is here.

Here.

Only ever _here_.

Bubbling between the thighs. A tremor without candor; it lurks in the breast, scalds like a sword-swallower with an affection for napalm. Jellied sexual psychosis trickles and coils and _eases_ out; great thick sticky wads slide with an untroubled languor as sure and ineluctable as a Red Army tank through the hips.

An inferno.

The world has become an inferno in the pain that can be _tasted_ , rearing up in its great waves that don't merely batter but _crash_. Inundated. Delirious. Buffeted and it's only to steep yourself in the swelter that reaches out with its great groping fingers to coil around your cheeks, to lace into your hair.

That gouges and _excavates_. Deeper and deeper and deeper. Huge flesh plumes should _spurt_ out; they do not. The reality is defiant; it isn't fair. The hand _plunges_ now. Skewers. Impales him.

"W-waha, aah, ah, ah, Mistress Orchid!" Keening wailing squealing; there is nothing like _equivocation_ now in the falsetto. There is no pretension. It is not the sissy's affectation but the simple truth. The genuflection has become prostration.

Play-pretend surrender is real quiescence.

Because there is not the word _no_.

There _cannot_ be the word _no_ in this place.

It is to deny it.

It is to cast it out.

It is concrete, the great edifices, the brutalist horrors, the belief-beggaring _ugliness_ in our priapic architectural hubris that blights this land, ground into dust; it is to taste its flare, its spray, its flower while it's fed through the machinery, the flesh machinery that will persevere even when the metal and glass have become memory, have been reclaimed, because it will not capture humanity's guise but only _a_ guise.

There will be form. Ultimately, irresistibly, there will forever be this, even when it is only in time's ricocheting splashing back against annihilation's great wall.

Deeper, deeper.

 _Dug_ into him.

The fingers outstretched and simply... Closing. Coalescing into a fist. A long stroke a cartoonish strange conceit; a pantomime act of slaughter in its patient gelatin creep through him. The eyes are not only enormous but explode beyond the face's boundaries; the exotic confluences in geometry, the pretty-boy masculinity and the perfected sainted femininity in the makeup in those hard coarse strokes that have been softened to bewitching grace, they are quivering, spasmodic. Lips sag open and his tongue lolls out and there is a huge long dark hot guttural _mewl_.

"Waaaarhgh..." It's beautiful, isn't it? Admiring him; to know _his_ eyes in this coveted this _courted_ humiliation.

"Isn't it fucking _pathetic_ , Hei- _wan_? What _man_ , even what _boy_ , would consent to this? I can't see daddy doing this; on his hands and knees in such a _delicious_ slutty costume with a woman's hand in his ass. And not only my _hand_. Do you see?

"Arch that cute body; c'mon, c'mon. Be a good little girl. Whores like _you_ should learn the proper poise. Face down, ass up." And there's obedience, obedience. Surrender and the chin's a sharp immoderate _crack_ on the floor, because there's no patience here in the zeal to satisfy.

To delight.

Groveling.

It is to beseech _more_.

"Oh, look at _that_. Such an... An adorable little _bitch_. That's what you are, isn't it, Hei- _wan_? A bitch in heat, right? Look at you. No _woman_ would even do that. You're the _worst_ ; the lowliest; the _ugliest_. And such a cute face. You're just a fuck-pig; you're a slut-machine. That's what you are.

"Right? Right? Look at _this_!" The finger _hooked_ into his cheek tugged, jerked, wriggling twisting through the flesh and there's a demented half-sneer, symmetry denied in another hand invested in the heat pulsating throbbing huge huge _huge_ through that cavernous place that abyss opening around not only the fist but the wrist, forearm dipping down down down vanishing into the dark.

"Waaargh-"

"Oh, it's just... It's so _ugly_. Only _half_ your mouth opened; use one of yours, slut." Obedience; a bare finger _wrenched_ into his right cheek. It's delectable, isn't it? The surrender in it. The _madness_ ; the eyes not only glazed but crazed. There is a coalescing clarity a lucid perfection that's the essence of the rheumy insanity _hardening_ in an inverted ice with the swelter that only deepens more, more, more.

This is the word.

More.

Pulling open his cheeks; a crazed parody in the child's taunt. In the tongue tumbling out between teeth that aspire to patience and still _gouge_ into that swollen fuchsia stripe that's become something almost animated with its own will, a fat bloated worm twisting _slapping_ down at the floor and rearing back up again.

"Are you going to come? Are you going to try to _come_ from this?" It can be felt.

The tension.

Clenching.

 _Cinching_ around my right wrist.

"Tell me, you fucking _whore_ -"

" _Waash_." Pathetic.

"Pitiful. Just fucking _pitiful_. You're being _punished_ , you worthless irredeemable shit. You're just an irremediable failure, aren't you? A woman's _arm_ in your slutty loose broken-up sloppy asshole, and you're going to _come_.

"Aren't you going to apologize-"

"Shooowwwy!" It's comic, frothing with spittle. "Showwy. Showwy-"

"You fucking _should_ be. You're not allowed to come, Hei- _wan_. Uh-uh- _uh_." An admonition in perfect stillness. And still, still, the fingers are mischievous, still an irresistible wickedness.

It is this tyranny's essence.

It is _noblesse_ _oblige_ ; it is the sharp glowering cold-eyed _violence_ that can only announce a deeper inferno so great so hot that it's raced through reality's boundaries in sensation, warped itself into a chill that swallows the universe's every morsel of warmth.

Deeper; deeper; deeper.

A prod at that point; that delicious _root_. That idiot fucking desire's root; grazed once, and twice, and it is absolute liberation. It is the tyranny in ownership; in peering at the drapes and ripping them from the walls; at shrugging at the china that just _ain't_ your hue, your pattern, gorging yourself on the comic _crash_ that melts down into the faintest little anticlimax in tinkling porcelain.

It is brandishing a flamethrower, the walls napalmed in tribute to your opprobrium for the fucking tacky wallpaper.

Harvest gold? Avocado? Well, there is a place for this.

It's 'seventy-seven. Whatever Ayumi's aesthetic perversions.

It's to know _this_.

Control.

And it is because they've tucked the keys into your hands. Not to be Whistler; not in the insouciant exploitation, the trust abused.

It is a plea for this; this _is_ the trust. The cruelty in the hand that is animated, perhaps, with cash. But this is only the preface this is only the relationship's foundation. It is in the mutual craving for these sublime syllables, the algolagnia that gathers in the flesh; a great tendril spearing through me through _him_ at once.

It is an artistry; he is the canvas, the flesh offered not only freely not only with his will but with his invitation for more, more, more.

"If you come, I could just _kill_ you, you know. No one would know; no one would _care_. Well, maybe little Kazuha- _nyan_. But I would be _there_ to comfort her at the funeral." A whisper; scalding, sticky, _wet_ on lips brilliant, lacquered in carmine like jellied blood. The words are a bladed cavort; a sonic sword-dance through the ears.

The flesh _clenches_.

Crushes.

"My, my, _my_. Maybe I should. Something _this_ fucking diseased should be excised like cancer before it can metastasize. Every one of you. I fantasize about this, you know. It's a vision of the future. Not in mushroom clouds; not the apocalypse that Ayumi adores. It's something _subtler_.

"No eschatology at all. It's a great new _transition_. It's a reckoning. And you _lose_ ; all of you... Pathetic heaps of Y chromosomes. You broken genomes. You _lose_. You _**lose**_. You. Fucking. _**Lose**_. I might be studying law, but I think genetics, maybe virology, they're more than pastimes for me.

"To hell with chemistry. It's mother nature that's wrought the greatest weapon. The virus. That's what you are; that's what should take you. Women should flourish. The worthy, mmm... Not these pathetic little _sissies_ like you.

"But the ones that understand what it _is_ to be a woman. They should be spared." Lips brushed in a pantomime kiss again, again, again along the ear's fragile shell rearing up like fine sleek stone washed of its impurities surfacing into a sunset-bronzed low tide through the satiny jet wig. "But not you.

"I'd love it. Putting my hands on you; _squeezing_." Finger slipped from his lips; it's not only one, no, no, but two, and then three, and then four... Well, why not count them again, just to be sure? Ah, ah, a _fifth_.

Settling around his fine slim neck.

"Oh, now _this_ is a very feminine throat. No fingerprints at all. Mommy and daddy, why, I'm sure they'd be _so_ eager to silence it, wouldn't they? Their son in this _adorable_ costume. It's all about our culture's poison.

"Its face. They wouldn't even ask. Ah, ah, _Hei-wan_ , I could just _squeeze_." And it is a squeeze. It's to know the succulent symmetry in the body's _strain_ ; sudden, explosive, every inch flaring into a tortured twanging relief like an overstrung guitar.

"Ahn..." And still, still, how _compliant_ the little bitch is. It will not stir; there is a warped half-sneer again with the finger still twisted through its lips.

"Take your finger _finger_ out of your mouth; you look ridiculous. You're just pathetic. Just. So. Fucking. _Pathetic_." Stabbed; fingers gathered into a fist and _plunged_ down now, again and again and again.

And it's to know the unreality in it; in body rearing up arching heaving the somatic transcending the psychic because the mind has abdicated anything like power to the flesh. It is writhing wriggling twisting straining; the belly glimpsed in the mirror's sharp cold glint warm with a reflected heat in the candles' quiver and vacillation.

The skin _dimples_ with the knuckles' caress.

"Look at you, you disgraceful _slut_. You're _filled_ with my hand. It's so hot inside you, you know. And you're betraying it. How _deeply_ you're swallowing me; how much you're clamoring for more, more, more. This's your refrain, isn't it?

"Such a pathetic little materialist. Such a hungry _ghost_ of our culture's death, its prosperity. Always just begging for more. How does it feel?"

"Schyo, schyo _good_ , Mishtress." Gurgling slavering the spittle frothing with senseless tongue-numbed gibberish from the lips. "Schyo good-"

"Schyo _good_ , huh? Fucking pathetic. I haven't even _ordered_ you to babble like a little girl, and listen to you-"

"Cwan't hyeeelp it." There is no longer _speech_ ; every whisper every gasp every word every _shape_ is tinged twisted defiled with the lust's huge sulfurous bulk. It is only sexual gibberish. It is only a baby's squalling plea for indulgence.

Atavistic.

Simpleminded.

"Cwan't hyelp it."

"No? What about _this_? You're just _disgusting_. I should punish you." A blow from within; the fist rises up up up through the flesh into a cruel relief, knuckles glimpsed like a ghost's terrible silhouette intuited through a lambent satin curtain.

"Waaaargh-"

"Does it hurt?"

"Yesssh. Yesssh-"

"But you love it?"

"Yesh. Yesh." Wilting; drooping.

"I couldn't even _try_ to ruin you. This slutty ass-pussy's already fucking broken, isn't it? It's already just _wreckage_. Flotsam. You're desecrated; you're _wrecked_. Right?

"Isn't that right? Why even bother with this pathetic sloppy hole?" There is no answer; there is no rejoinder; this is not a joust.

Not a duel.

There's only quietude; only the heart's endless pulsation intuited through sleek soft unctuous flesh.

Fist _dragged_ from him; and it is not only strings _cut_ but a ragged chainsaw's blades the machinery belching greasy smoke gurgling throbbing _torn_ through the marionette's taut trembling cables. A snap and a failure and the figure is simply _imploding_ in the mirror.

Reality converges with reality; geometry with geometry.

Elbows are a brutal bone-ravaging _crack_ on the floor.

"I'm not finished with you, you filthy fucking slut! What's wrong with you?!" Rearing up; it isn't to stand but simply gravity denied, defied, _soaring_ to the heels' sharp rapping points.

And one introduced to little Hei- _wan_ 's spine.

A groan.

A gasp.

"I'm not fucking finished with you. No, no, no. Look at what you smeared on my gloves!" Brandished now; no longer content to admire that lovely roundness in the hips' _remarkable_ voluptuousness, but with fingers laced around his neck, dragging him, jerking him, up up up to something that could almost be called _standing_ if the knees weren't little more than overwatered gelatin.

The body's juices jumbled with the lubricant twinkle with a starlight pungent not with the profane but only the visceral virtually to the elbow.

"Well?"

"I- I cweaned myself-"

"Yes, you did. I would've fucking _killed_ you if you'd smeared shit on my gloves. It's just... This. So _juicy_ ; like a girl." And there is not a kiss.

No, no, no.

It is his cheek as a canvas; and it is not a slap, but the back of a hand _cracked_ over the jaw. Syrupy essences paint him in gouache; the body _wilts_.

Crumples back with a boneless tortured thrall, shuddering on the floor.

"It looks like there's _nothing_. Perfectly colorless. How _lucky_ for you. But you're not finished, Hei- _wan_. I want to reward you for being such a _hygienic_ piece of ass. I know, I know, it really doesn't reflect grandiose hopes for you, does it?

"It's kind of the lowest common denominator. Expecting you to be _clean_. Just a _micron_ above Charles II of Spain. At least you don't have the Habsburg jaw. No, no, no. What a _cute_ little bitch. But _I_ have a gift.

"Would you like it?"

There is silence.

Answering is an invitation not to anguish and not to discipline, because these are fundamental.

But a _deeper_ torment. A profounder wickedness. Not merely the sumptuous algolagnia to be tasted in its fetishistic self-flagellation but authentic cruelty.

So there is quietude.

"Mmm... You would, wouldn't you? You may speak."

While the tongue has swollen straining _desiccated_ into a contorted fat twisted torment; while the lips tremble, aspire for purchase on even the most elementary word.

"What seems to be the matter, Hei- _wan_?"

"C-can't tawk-"

"Why is _that_? Are you _that_ huge of a slut, then? You've just... Just abdicated _every_ bit of pretension of being a man, is that it? Do you think women are nothing but _holes_ to be filled? To be fucked? Is that what you think?!" There is no victory.

You must understand now. These mechanistic things; to fasten your fingers around the levers and gears and the cranks and the vagaries and vicissitudes wet and sputtering and soft and still yielding with such a _predictable_ ease. It is to know the convolutions in the meat and bone; it is to know the wisdom tattooed with such candor on the blood's every droplet, its every _corpuscle_.

Peer at them; study them; scrutinize them. It is our collective history. It is our civilization's _truth_ ; it is felt in a great Möbius whose tendril sprawls in its vast scope beyond the horizon and loops back again with mischievous mendacity, that teases those whose delusions urge them to phantasmagoria in this sainted thing called Progress.

But there is no passage into the future. There is only what _is_ ; it is to live and to relive the past's pageants. The hungers. The technology may perhaps be finer, but the clarity is only tasted in retrospect.

There is only our heritage; there is only Genesis' cold hand, not dead and not alive but a celestial duality that perhaps dwells beside Schrödinger's Cat. It is; it only is, and cannot be anything _but_ this. The compulsion to touch; to adore; to lust; to hunger.

To breathe and to breed, also.

And there will be no procreation; this is meaningless to a body whose blind instincts and spattering coruscating neurons misfire or perform with the flesh's exacting perfections not calibrated not _manufactured_ but only perfected in whimsical experimentation in life and destruction through time's endless sprawl.

There is a stroke.

A touch.

The fragrance is heady, heavy, in the sulfurous mist the candles define; it is a reality whose boundaries lie alone in the light and the deepest shadows that can only flourish in its haze.

"A-ahn... It's... It's not that, Mistress Orchid-"

"Oh, I'm _sure_ it is. You're just like _any_ man. Wearing this _ridiculous_ costume." A heel _poised_ now on the spine's theatrical slashing arc. "But no high heels. It's for your convenience, your comfort, right? That _slutty_ makeup.

"You're wearing this wig. Do you _know_ how uncomfortable long hair is _loose_ in this sort of heat?" There's only a delight in this.

A tremor through the fingers.

Because there is a fundamental compulsion.

 _ **You're** wearing lingerie._

 _ **Your** hair's loose._

Ah, ah, but this is _not_ the point, is it?

"You're just a bad pantomime; you're probably one of those sissy _faggots_ that thinks a man is the best woman. That you embody the caricature _the best_. Maybe it's true. So you're going to find _just_ how true it all is, little Hei- _wan_.

"You're nothing but a fuck-hole; you're nothing but a sissy boy-pussy to be plumbed. Right? Right?" Falling, more, more, more, an act of tyranny. The statuesque now _statuary_ ; rearing up, prideful. Bliss in your conquest.

The heel driven deeper, deeper.

"Tell me!"

"Yeees!" There is only the great Möbius, you know; there is only the strange inscrutable quirk in time, and in reality.

All life is nothing but a fantasia courtesy of Escher.

We will twist into ourselves, and into yourselves; we are you and you are we and, ultimately, when the mirror is broken with the fist outstretched when the shards tumble down tinkling chattering like ice-tormented teeth, well, what does any of it matter at all?

There is a figure.

A _being_.

It is perhaps an obsession. It is all hypocrisy; it is all sincerity. Ah, ah, this fundamental _animus_ for the male. For the self-indulgence; for the selfishness; for the _stupidity_. Swollen and ravening with blood; pulsating pounding pummeling rearing up from between the thighs, animated with the fingers, with the imagery strange and vaporous and ultimately _meaningless_ and preciouser than even the truth, perhaps.

It is there. Poised upon a table that cannot be seen, cannot be known, because it is not willed for _this_ little doggy's eyes.

Snatched up; hefted on a palm. Admired in its fundamental hugeness. It is this surrender to hypocrisy. It is to know _the infinite_ , a confluence of man and woman, the perversion the _forbidden_. It is both of Life's halves at once.

There's a celestial quality in it. I am not steeped in Ayumi's superstitions; this is true. I do not believe in God or god or Gods or gods. But there is still a fundamental _epiphany_ lurking forever in the breast, a great wheeling constellation whose stardust aura can be grazed, can perhaps be taken wholly into one's hand. Can be _clutched_ and cradled to the soul and kissed and licked and tasted and dragged deep with a long long long breath into the lungs, can be sucked deeper than this.

It is Creation. It is not with Ayumi's hedonistic fervor to wade into these beliefs in their every gradation and every vicissitude; to be the ecumenical party-crasher, throwing herself into a Temple for an evening and then jandering off to a mosque and then maybe up to a cathedral for Mass before carnal rites are taken amongst the Satanists.

It is a _very_ particular voyeur, perhaps. But there is still a spirituality in it. In the _Creation_ here. Without destruction. It has not yet been conjured into being; not yet shuffled off to Bethlehem to be born. It is not stillborn and not extant, either.

It is plastic Creation; it is counterfeit Conception. It is a fabrication stained with the words better-living-through-chemistry and it is still _extant_. It is still real.

It is heavy; it is a burden on the palm; it _weighs_ on the arm straining with muscle sinewy and graceful and not _thick_ , no, no, not quite the karate-ka's brutality but still without this sainted feminine quality called _weakness_. Long. Curvaceous. Sinuous.

Its geometries tantalize. The bloated head whose helmeted convolutions speak of clopping jackboots and the hand upraised with a stern sieg heil; the slit that is not play-pretend along its great swollen flourish.

The _shaft_ , stern and straining.

There is a...

A shiver.

A whisper of man's own ingenuity; mankind's device that could only have spilled from a woman's hand and a woman's mind and a woman's _heart_. This will that is called insecurity and envy and is _nothing_ so fickle, so banal.

It is not a wish for the trite political offices.

It is a craving for the _sensation_. It is a plea for the confluence in the masculine and the feminine; it is a fucking _need_ to know.

Yes.

Yes.

A strange quavering orb at its root _tucked_ deeper, deeper between the thighs; jaw clenching and lips quivering and it's a moment that declaims the impossible and this impossibility is still here, reality's triumph over the ideal called _normative_.

A shudder.

Sensation _flares_ , flourishes, stitches itself in grandiose embroideries, becomes elegant traceries and strange rarefied filigree enameled over every nerve. I am _become_ this thing. Toes curl in the stiletto'd boots; the latex stockings are steeped in sweat; the heat is frenzied.

And this, _this_ , this constellation of play-pretend neurons, they're no longer only _play-pretend_. They are here; they are an immediacy a transcendental delirium a delectation.

It is often denied.

So often.

And still, still, there is the recursiveness in its masturbatory fervor; in the palm's cradling caress in the squeezing clenching onanism in the fingers brushed up and down up and down its great bulk. _He_ is here; he is here.

And he is _she_.

It is something orderly, isn't it?

The male is deliverer; the female is receptacle.

It's bullshit.

But there is still a twinge, a strange and irrepressible spasm in this imagery.

Ah!

 _Pluming_ with mushroom cloud thunder between my ears.

It's epiphany.

Of course!

He is she.

She is he.

Ah, ah, we are wheeling twisting _inverting_ ; our biological mathematics our carnal mechanics, they are trembling and breaking and melting down and being reassembled with a child's conception of its orderliness, simply _mashed_ together into a primal likeness.

And it does not matter at all.

"A-ah, ah, Hei- _wan_ , how deliciously _hot_ is your slutty loose ass-pussy? How fucking _sloppy_ is it?" Jaw clenched; palms simply _clapped_ on his ass now, faint gradations in warmth and slathered with the lubrication's greasy wheeling patterns. "You _really_ should've worn latex, too.

"A bit of symmetry; ah, ah, _ah_. Creamy pallor for your soft brown skin. I _love_ that Kansai complexion. Won't you serenade me with a little Kansai- _ben_ , too, Hei- _wan_?"

"W-whaddaya wan' me to say?" How _obedient_ now; the ease with which the voice that quivering waltzing jumble in purified sonorous falsetto and its grinding implosion into the masculine and its rise again will capture the words. The _novelty_ in these whirling patterns like Sand Paintings, coveted, adored, in their impermanence.

"So fuckin' _cute_!" Yes, yes, yes.

Knelt now.

Craning down.

"Are you ready, lil' Hei- _wan_?"

There is no answer. It. Doesn't. Matter.

Palms _hammer_ at the hips.

Slap with a merciless thunder at the thighs.

"Well?! Well?! You're not a fucking girl at all, you nasty little _slut_. You sissy _whore_. These legs are too firm; there's no _softness_. No _flesh_. No goddamn _meat_ , Hei- _wan_. You're nothing but a cut-rate piece of shit ass-pussy, aren't you?

"How hot is it? I'm gonna bang you _raw_."

"Naaaw! D-don'do'at!" Not only Kansai- _ben_ ; slurred histrionic _nothing_.

"I am. I am. I'm gonna pump your ass _raw_ 'til it bleeds; I'm gonna pummel you; I'm gonna fuck you there _so_ much we'll finally learn whether a boy can get pregnant." There's no teasing.

No _get ready for the rape_ bullshit.

It's just there. Poised at the cusp and it's stouter than a fucking cola can in its girth; it is a figure of violence. An act of atrocity against gentleness against grace against delicacy and who cares who _could_ care?

Poised there.

 _Slip_ it against the yawning hungry maw that's nothing so trivial as just some frail little pucker. It's already sloppy; already depraved; already slackened, falling apart to entice to invite with the fist's pummeling pumping strokes. It's already wafting its strange hot heady sticky delirium, smeared on the nostrils.

Deeper and deeper and deeper; not cocaine but a quick huffing heroin joy bang. No simple bell-ringer, no, no, no. It's a wish for coke at this instant; it's a clamoring a craving for more, more, more. Because the nerves are already aflame, so why not knead them with napalm and spatter them with electricity and _torture_ them 'til there's only a numb catatonia?

Admiring it.

Beethoven's _Ninth_ lacquers the senses.

Ah.

Ah.

 _Ah_.

it is not a fragile wilting falsetto trill; it is the a basso profondo _psychosis_. It is lyrical pointillism.

Freude, Schöner Wem der Große Freude trinken alle Wesen

Seid Such'ihn

Freude Freude Freude Freude Freude

You will be as gods.

You will be as gods.

You will be as gods.

Buffer overrun.

Please insert system disco inferno-

And it becomes death metal.

Aaaaargh!

Fuck.

Snarling.

Snapping.

Torment.

 _Impaling_ me; impaling him and being skewered and, yes, yes, it is a point of approximation it is honey slathered on a fucking cucumber and perhaps not _authentic_ melon, but when the melon has never been savored in its sticky juicy delirium on the tongue, honey-smeared cucumber is _sublime_. There is no alternative.

All is approximation.

All is subjectivity.

Bare.

Exposed.

The flesh's strange oleaginous _cleanness_ ; the grace the sleek soft _tight_ perfection; that ring clenching _closing_ around me the great exoticism in the abyssal heat that unfurls around you that entices you deeper than is not formless at all but still shapeless and protean. It is not natural at all.

Nothing is natural. It is _bliss_ to be absolutely resolutely unnatural. The law is not natural; science is not natural; _breathing_ , ultimately, is not natural, either. It is only with the autonomic nervous system that this is possible.

A paramecium cannot claim this.

"W-waaargh!" His- _her_ voice. What does it matter in its delicious duality? Pumping, plumbing, _plunging_. Impaling little Hei- _wan_ and the sissy boy-pussy ass is in _sumptuous_ ripeness today. "You're ripping me in half, Mistress Orchid!"

"Good. I was _afraid_ it was too gentle."

"'s- 's hard; 's so _hot_ -"

"Oh, stop _whining_ -"

"H-Hei- _wan_ ain't doin' no whinin'-"

"Fuckin' cute. You little Kansai _cunt_. You need some Kantō education, doncha-"

"Yeah. Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!"

"Tell me. Tell me." Purchase ain't possible in the wig; alas, alas. So it's a bit, oh, _lower_. Fingers laced around his neck and tugging and pulling and it's to know the spine's obliging arch while the flesh yields while that monstrous rubberized _perversion_ sinks plunges plumbs deeper, deeper, deeper.

Finally just...

"I'm _bottoming out_ in you, you little whore. You can _really_ take it deep. Does it hurt?"

"Yeah! Yeah! S-sure fuckin' does!" Craning; twisting; the eyes have slackened, half-opened half-closed and it is a collision of both in their _failure_. In the neurological mayhem lacing its terrible fingers up up up not the lover's elegant caress but the torturer's serpentine wires _twisted_ through the body.

More than bottomed-out.

Just _vanishing_ into him.

"I'm amazed you can't taste it on your tongue."

"W-wish I could, Mistress Orchid. Feels... Feels so fuckin' good-"

"You piece of _shit_ little slut. What feels so fuckin' good, you Kansai cunt?" A palm not only slapped but _hammered_ at his face, an open-palm _punch_ for the cheek, once and again and again. "You whore; you disgusting dirty piece of _shit_.

"What're you trying to tell me?"

"H-Hei- _wan_ 's ass-pussy feels so fuckin' good; so goddamn good I can't take it no more! Hei- _wan_ wantsa coooom-"

"Come, huh? You want to come? Well, _that_ ain't gonna happen. Don't even fucking _fantasize_ about it. D'ya know why?" Stillness; at once, at once, perfect _stillness_.

The heartbeat throbs through me with a violence deeper than knuckles hammered in your gut.

But it's an _anguish_ for him.

"W-waaaah-"

"You fucking _whining_ about that, Hei- _wan_? You _whore_ -"

"Hei- _wan_ is. Hei- _wan_ 's a dirty worthless whore; Hei- _wan_ 's only good for gettin' pumped full'uppa girl-cock!" It's pitiful; _pitiful_. The trembling lips and the ungainly tongue that probably couldn't even _delight_ a man or a woman without spilling spittle in a likeness of the fucking Atlantic across the floor.

"You think it's only _girl-cock_. No, no, _no_ , little Hei- _wan_. You're gonna have _real_ boy-cock, also. Do you think a _real_ sissy gets to have pretensions of _dignity_? It's a fucking _affront_ to a girl's dignity to be forced to cope with anything as _ugly_ , as _graceless_ , as a man.

"Don't you understand that? It's _degrading_ ; it's a punishment built into our fucking genes. There're times when I wonder if all of that theology shit is _right_. That the gods hate and envy us _so_ fucking much that they'd punish us with those _lusts_. Don't you understand it?

"If you wanna be a _real_ sissy, it won't just be _my_ girl-cock. Oh, it'll be _so_ much fun, won't it?" It's the... The rage. A colossal bubbling heap gathered in celestial palms and lathered and stroked and slathered over every inch and fulminating and it's more intense than the _word_ can accommodate.

It just is. It's a drunkenness; it's to feast not on your twin but a _parallel_ being; my sister is here, and her sister, and my sister, and her sister, and all of our sisters and we are each sisters, also, peering at this _insanity_ in the mirror.

She is there.

Or perhaps _I_ am there; it is she whose eyes are sense's locus, their home. It is only delusion only _my_ figment. But what does it matter at all when the eyes can close and the _heat_ is still there? The heat that is conveyed to me only in gradations of soft sculpted mathematics; in a great celestial _mist_ heaped there, wrought and rejuvenated. It is a firmament; it is the ether the _transcendental_.

All is a fiction. Eat your flesh and your flesh will eat you back and you will be Ouroboros; you will be as gods, you know. To know and to know when you do _not_ know, also.

"A-ah! Ah! You fucking _whore_ , Hei- _wan_. Oh, oh, oh, you're going to _feel_ what it's like to take a _real_ boy-cock in this pussy of yours. And your mouth? That's your throat-pussy. If you only have _two_ holes, you definitely need to compensate.

"They'll love it. My friends. Won't _you_ , little Hei- _wan_?"

There's silence.

A hand _crashes_ ; it is nothing gentle now. It is a 747 plunging down down down like a sparrow stricken with a Sparrow missile, guided, you know, beam-riding, a forty kilogram warhead spiraling out in a great Möbius reel and we are here _again_.

"W-wahaaaa-"

A blow.

Once.

And again.

Bruising.

Pounding.

Pummeling.

Already, already, there's the familiar hot garnet flare; and it will become an authentic sunset while it festers, while it yields, while it wilts and falters and fails. While the flesh does not die but simply rejuvenates itself.

You're either bruised or you're dead.

There is a long huge heaving knee-trembling pump now; once and again and again.

"Won't you?"

"H-Hei- _wan_ 'll love being a sissy whore! Hei- _wan_ 'll love being fiiiiillled up with cock; with cum. Let- let it all- all spray on my face; I wanna wear it like makeup. H-Hei- _wan_ wantser sissy makeup to _run_ with it.

"An'- an' get all in Hei- _wan_ 's ass-pussy-"

"That's _right_." And the fingers are dragged _sloshing_ through the sweat that gathers in huge slopping puddles that coalesce that spatter and splatter over the floor in sharp popping _pricks_ like a brand jabbed into a plastic lens, twisting and warping and all is prismatic all is _madness_.

Yes, yes, yes.

"Here you are, lil' Hei- _wan_. I have a _gift_ for you." Well, for _me_. Who cares. It is a tug a pull and there is no _pain_ even when the girl-cock is warped yanked jerk. It is to twist and pivot and _deform_ him; plant the beauty on his shoulders and the muscle is quite the asset, ain't it?

"W-waaah! You're-"

"That's _right_!" Staring down at the little doggy bitch; admiring the soles craned up to the ceiling. An ambition to staining the world with their adorable footprints; an _ease_ in clamping gloved fingers on the fabric that's simply become transparent around the toes with sweat's fragrant hugeness, the perfume something...

Something so _exotic_.

Lust.

Sex.

It's _fucking_ 's native aroma.

It's the faint kiss of eau de parfum; it's a delicate _fruit_ tone, resolves itself with vanilla like cum spattering from that hungering _jealous_ flesh. It's there, dusky skin inflamed scarlet and thrashing bobbling staring down at the little dog bitch while the shoulders are planted on the floor while the neck _strains_ pleads for relief in its crane along the wood and there _is_ no relief at all while the hips twist and it's a quick pummeling pivot like a fucking pile driver.

Battered pounded down into the floor, once and again and again and again.

"You need a _humongous_ pair of sissy tits, you pathetic little fuck-hole. You need _massive_ titties like Ayumi's to flop around; to spill _all_ over your face. But that cock is _very_ cute. And you're already about to _come_ , aren't you? You nasty _slut_." Yes, yes, yes. "You're just a slut-machine, aren't you?

"All this wet hot meat is just a system. Isn't that right? Taste the _kybernetik_ ; the slut-machine that you are because you've _become_ that, because you've willed yourself into it. Ain't that right, little Hei- _wan_? You slut; you _whore_.

"You're that because you wanted to be it; but you can't change because that's what you willed yourself into being. Don't you _get_ it? Feedback isn't feedback at all; it's just the future inflicting itself on the present. You didn't even _know_ it.

"It's what your body already _knew_!" Drive it deeper and deeper and deeper and know the jaw clenching the lips drawn taut the body _trembling_ with him with it. And it is to change me, also, that _vigor_ that _vitality_ that fucking _energy_. I am the vampire and he will drink and I will drink and which one of us ultimately is the vampire when we _both_ are?

Pitch pump _plunge_ rip through him know the faint _whisper_ rippling through the belly's sleek taut skein rich with muscle and still, still, when you will it, when our collective psychic fervor builds that great edifice, how can you still call it an empty field? There _is_ a femininity there.

It's irresistible; it's delirious. It's perfection. Perversion. Pluck at the cute little toes and there's a sudden urgent hot _lurch_. A wisdom, a knowledge, because the machinery is _conveying_ this to me. I am become the machine because the machine is become me, also.

"A-ah, ah, Hei- _wan_ wants cooome!" Quailing up, up, up. The voice is insanity.

" _Really_?" Is this awe? "That's _all_ you want-"

"H-Hei- _wan_ 's goin' fuckin' crazy; totally fuggin' crazy-"

" _Reaaally_?" Crane twist _leer_ down; there's a sense that the universe telescopes, implodes into itself, and it is to crush down into the little boy-slut and for the little boy-slut to rear up into _me_. "Really, really, _**really**_?

"Why do _I_ fucking care-"

"Hei- _wan_ wants- wantsa be... Be a real boy-slut; wantsa do it... An'- an'- an' a slut needs cum on her face, right?"

"Oh, listen to _that_? You want to come on your own face, huh?"

"Yeees!" How lovely.

So there is not a stroke.

There is already a shimmering smear gathering over the head so fucking _tight_ that even without its dampness it would be effulgent glinting glimmering.

A palm _slapped_ at a sole; fingers close around the toes.

"All right. All right. If you _can_ , then Mistress Orchid will _let_ you come on your own face. But you need to open your pretty made-up lips; just _wearing_ it ain't enough. Besides, it's just _filled_ with protein. You must be _famished_." Stare; admonish; _indict_.

The eyes' every flit every glint every glance.

 _Plunging_.

Quick merciless pumps and it's something absolutely fucking _incredible_ , admiring the syrupy threads that're distended with the fist's deliberate pounding stroke against that stout pearl, once and again and again and again and it's just gathering growing huger hotter more, more, more.

More and more and more.

Yes, yes, yes.

It's...

It's not that orgasm is something absolute and discrete; it is not a _man_ 's. Not quite. But there is a duality. That place of unknowable dark heat between the thighs speaks and bellows and roars but it's clamped in an iron mask; it is an almost hopeless thing, a yammering narcissistic solipsistic protest against the insurmountable. The legs shudder with every new scrawling bliss that rears up like a broken stained glass confetti.

Every nerve is twisted apart and stitched back together in those strange instants that're intervals between breath, so countless so vast so deliriously _relentless_ that they're not unnoticed and not unremarkable but just...

Just as deserving of comment as the sun.

It is there.

If you refuse to admit it, it is still there.

Compose glorious soliloquy, and it is still there.

"Ah. Ah. Hei- _wan_ , you filthy little _whore_. Do you know what Mistress Orchid is gonna do?"

"Hei- _wan_ 'll do anything!"

"Call yourself a girl; not just a sissy. You're a _real_ girl right now. I _fucking **hate**_ boys, so deal with it-"

"Hei- _wan_ wantsa be a pretty girl!" It isn't true.

When this is finished, the truculent little fuck will not have forgotten, but this will be tucked into those dark shameful places, the addict or the abuser or the pedophile or... Or the eccentricities or perversions or _whatever_ it is, an unwholesome affection for gangsta rap, where _judgment_ is dreaded.

You will be One of Those People.

Your life as one of _The Exalted_ will be finished.

So it will not be said.

"You fucking liar-"

"Hei- _wan_ wantsa be!" Defiant, crowing, because this moment is an instant _out_ of time. It is fantasy's fulfillment; it is ideal without permanence. Its geometries will die as surely as clay that is never introduced to the kiln.

"You'll be _very_ pretty coated with jizz; that's for damn sure." But who can care? Now, now, now, well, is the Bushido Spirit not to be a broken piece of jade and not a simple roofing tile? It is the _aesthetic_ 's triumph over the reality.

You are all tools; nothing much matters.

Fuck it.

Yes.

In the most earnest possible way.

Fuck it.

Fuck _him_.

Bear down down down jab it pound it pummel it and the eyes have flared open and simply coiled around themselves; their great lakes have simply _taken_ the land into themselves and in so doing have vanished into their own seas. The tears rear up and shimmer on the mascara-thickened lashes.

There is a tremor.

A quaver.

A _wail_. It's here; it's here; it's here. It's _him_ clenching clutching shuddering shivering; it's woe and despair _rearing_ up. It is rising, and rising, and rising, and it is with a thunder that should announce the Apocalypse, a vision of the eschatological.

A _screech_.

"W-waaaaaha! Hei- _wan_ 's cooomin'!" Yes, yes, yes. "Hei- _wan_ 's gonna coat her own face with cum. W-wemme toooouch it!" Defiant, petulant, _presumptuous_. The hand still obedient, obligingly _clamped_ on the hardwood that's begun to gather great effulgent pools in Hei- _wan_ 's lust-fragrant sweat.

" _Mistress_ will touch it; keep holding your slutty fuck-hole up for me. Pathetic piece of _shit_." Snarling, snapping, and it's one foot abandoned, the leg castoff, derelict, toes trembling scribing demented wheeling orbits now with the pummeling strokes.

Adorable Hei- _wan_ 's palms slapped on the floor, once and again and again and it's gloved fingers _twisting_ around him now; a jerk a clench a stroke a pump not long graceful caresses but quick pummeling stripes, bruising and merciless, because this _must_ ultimately be.

Heels _set_ on the heavy hardwood and it's here.

It's here.

"Hei- _wan_ 's gonna cover her face!" Yes, yes, _yes_. And there is _no_ paucity of the lust burbling throbbing humongous convulsive _violent_. Vast gouts rear up; there is a sense of displacement, a cannon shell spat from the body's depths. The flesh trembles palpitates and it's a blaze. Wet huge sprays; squirting up up up or perhaps down down down.

All reality is fundamentally without frame of reference here; it is _splashing_ , splattering now, guided with a vigilant grace because it is Mistress Orchid's _noblesse oblige_. Alas, alas, even while the cybernetic psychosis _roars_ at me, rages at every fucking nerve.

While it's begging to waggle and wriggle and indulge exactly _this_. While vast thick creamy stripes settle over the cheeks; while great creamy gobs _slip_ over the nose's bridge a humongous drift sliding spattering across Hei- _wan_ 's brow, settling in the hair, the eyes inflamed enormous and _it_ hasn't yet arrived.

The Regret.

The Dread.

Coughing with the cum's fine briny pearls dappling the tongue; there is a heave a retch and who the hell can care when it's a spasm that's the essence of the universe _ending_. Crushing onto itself; _into_ itself. All melts.

All surrenders.

"A-ah, ah, Hei- _wan_ , what a good little _whore_ you are, you fuck-meat. You're- you want _me_ to spray your face, right, doncha? To be a good little bukkake slut?" What's the answer?

None, none, none.

Dazed; the cheeks are stained with infernal sunset, blood puddling there in the inverted strange twist and quirk.

A pump.

Once.

Again.

"Well, too fuckin' _bad_. I'm gonna paint your ass-pussy with it; I'll stain your slutty dusky Kansai fuck-hole _white_." More, more, more.

A lunge.

One last stroke and...

And it's something theatrical.

It's something _supernatural_.

Eyes not open and not closed, either; there's only sightlessness. It's an explosion flaring up, up, up, from that flesh that is not, that still gorges itself on the body's sleek elegances, on the shapeless protean _wetness_ there cradled between Hei- _wan_ 's delicious hips, boyish as they are.

The universe is _perfected_ in this instant; with this rarefied forbidden indulgence.

All falls into its most sainted order.

And it _sprays_ up. Ah, ah, it is _no_ simple figment; it is not merely fabrication. It is a pump straining pulsating perhaps not with flesh and meat and blood; it is electricity. But all sense is ultimately electricity.

A flare. A flower. A _gout_ liberated and gurgling and it's something _palpable_ , racing into him falling down down down like a missile cast out into space and still, still, bits spurt up around me, slosh and settle and wheel and whorl and the little whore's eyes are _humongous_.

"M-Mistress Orchid's fillin' Hei- _wan_!" The bliss is more resolute, isn't it? It's gurgling with the cum; and more, more, a thick frothing _swarm_ swamping him bloating up and splashing over the adorable cock still swollen and straining with hunger, still tight and shuddering in my fingers, a treacly nacreous curtain that's sloshing and slopping down, down down.

"Eat it! Eat it, you little whore!" With mouth open; the _faux_ -cum is a very real dessert for the lips now.

Smeared on the skin.

Gagging on its unrealities.

Who. Fucking. Cares?!

A last grunt and strain and pump and...

And all is stillness.

It is the perfect quietude that ensues from the atomic bomb while the fallout settles in a wicked black rain; it is the tranquility when there is no longer _life_ to taste the concrete that has become dust, and the glass that tinkles while its great puddles coalesce again. While the firestorms have stilled, because they have eaten themselves into starvation.

Shivering.

 _Dragged_ out of him; and there's only the wet _splash_ in the juices burbling up up up from his slutty ass-pussy, loosened, slackened, _broken_ open, cheeks spattering on the floor with every morsel of strength abdicated; his body simply wet meat, sprawled out now with a slack boneless delirium.

Jerked into his mouth.

"I'm gonna fuck your mouth now, little Hei- _wan_. D'ya understand?" Snarl and snap and it doesn't matter now. The wig? Cast away.

There is now only the hair's authentic Japanese luster, an anthracite elegance that pleads for the fingers. Digging lacing twisting into the sumptuous sweat-drenched grace; the answer is a groan. Is silence.

Is the teeth dragged with only a purified polarized delirium ripped over the flesh; it cannot be furrowed, but only dimpled, and it's _delicious_.

A gurgle a gasp a _gag_.

"You look so fucking _dykish_ now without your wig, Hei- _wan_. E-even with that adorable makeup. Oh, oh, _look_ at you, smeared with your own jizz; with _mine_. You're even _more_ fucked up. I _really_ should take a picture, shouldn't I?

"They're worth a thousand words, I hear. Somehow; somehow. So what about a film? Is that sixty thousand words every fucking _second_?" Because it _is_ a camera; dredged up. An act of the most delicious alchemy in humiliation. The eyes plead and beseech and...

And there is a thumb brushed at the _record_ key.

A chime and chirrup and its cold mechanical eye, unblinking and absolute, it will feast and feed and gorge and swallow and commit these vicissitudes to perfect definition.

 _Mowaahaahhwahneeewwww_.

Something.

Something.

"A-ah. Ah. Ah. Ah." Shivering with it; with _him_. With thighs thrown around his shoulders mounting the slutty sleek delectation our mutual delusion portraying them as leaner, lither, girlish. Yes yes yes.

A world of _yes_.

A People's Republic of Yes.

But there can only be one Citizen More Equal Than Others.

Plunging.

 _Ripping_ through him; the throat invites and it's legitimate anguish, isn't it? More than the ass; there isn't a _neck_ cradling the ass.

Distending and there's an urgent huge _retch_.

"Fuck your gag-reflex." Well, _that_ is what I'm doing, ain't it?

A giggle sharper and brittler than an obsidian blade. Than the knives with which the Aztecs would carve through the flesh the meat even a horse's leg snapped off with a blow.

Pump.

And pump.

And...

"A-ah, ah, it's here again! Now, now, _noooow_!" Singsong. "Get ready for your bath, Hei- _wan_! Good doggy! Open your mouth like a _real_ slut! Wait. No. No. Close it; close that nasty fuckin' whore mouth, 'cause you shouldn't waste on _drop_ on your belly.

"I want to see it." Dragged out out out up up up while the spasms _crash_ down every nerve through every synapse fill the body like an invading army. A _virus_.

Yes.

This thing is an electron virus, isn't it?

It's glorious.

The first spurt is an executioner's shot; it's a cannoning thick concentrated _explosion_ that simply reflects and ricochets back again. The makeup's warped and tormented with tears, rheumy and shivering; with the cum that's already begun to twist itself apart in biologic centrifuge into its thin weak serum and those immense pearlescent clots; the lipstick in its resilience is still ultimately surrendering, because it must.

The jaw trembles and the mouth is clenched closed and the second spurt and the third and...

And what does it matter?

They're machine gun pulses, raking at lids cinched closed against the deluge like fucking battering ram. They're lacing themselves into the nostrils; they're an invitation to huge convulsive gags and rasps and shivers and they're settling in vast heavy drifts sliding ineluctably down in a vast pearl mustache over the upper lip and gathering into play-pretend semen stalactite from the chin.

And it's finished.

A chime from the camera.

"Oh, looks like it's _over_ , little Hei- _wan_." Standing. Standing. Heels are a brutal rap at the floor beside the cheek; a forlorn tormented little groan wafts up like a forest's silent pleas on a distant wind.

"Aaaah... R-Ran-"

"Mistress _Orchid_ , you little fuck. I'm finished with you; that doesn't mean you're anything but my _whore_. Do you understand that?" Wheeling around with a rage that isn't play-pretend.

But the time is finished.

"I have this _luscious_ film, y'know, Hei- _wan_. So you should remember that. Shouldn't you, Hattori- _kun_?" And there is now reality's intrusion; it is a _serration_ in the tanto dragged over his ribs. "Don't you fucking _dare_ imagine doing anything untoward.

"So this is what you'll do. Kazuha- _chan_ will fuck you up the ass, 'cause you _need_ it that way now. Keep your slutty ass-pussy in practice. Make sure it's loose and sloppy. And, oh, why don't you find a _niiiice_ boy?"

Knelt again; awed with the luscious symmetry in the hips stained white, and the face simply _obliterated_ in sprawling fantastical cum puddles.

"You need to learn to suck cock _much_ better than that; you never would've brought me off with _your_ technique. Look at you. Look at you. You _are_ very pretty, you know, smeared with jizz." Fingers dragged through the alabaster haze wreathing him like thickened cigarette smoke.

The smile adorning my lips is not the seductress', and not the tyrant's.

It knows no challenge.

It is the divine's.

"Learn to suck cock _much_ better. And you should be able to take a facial like that without flinching. I'll find some _nice_ boys to give you a little bukkake." Trembling; gurgling. "Of course, of course, if you'd rather _not_ , you can always leave.

"I'll destroy the recording. Every _byte_ of it. And you'll only have the memory. The _itch_ like a disease under your skin. The _addiction_. You decide. But I want you to make a diary of it all. Just for it to be _really_ real. We'll use the honor system, all right?

"I'll know, anyway, if you've been lying to me." Another sharp slapping _clap_ on his cheek. "Good _boy_." Because words are obviated with this union.

It's already obvious.

The latex slipped off.

There is no need for a shower; no, no. That would be a corruption, a perversion. To deny yourself the elemental delectation in the steeping sensuality in this sexual mist curtaining every _inch_. The sweat and desire and lust.

The cum's faint perfume.

And whatever novel formulation is conjured from that delicious bit of fantasy.

Abandon him there, still shuddering on the floor. The wardrobe is something simple; a satchel slung over your shoulder, unremarkable and unprepossessing. Kitten heels and stockings reaching up, up, up along your legs; thighs dimpling with their seams unseen and not conceived to be seen beneath the skirt's loose hem cradling your knees.

A simple tee-shirt.

A universe of indigo. It is not black. What bliss it would be for even the _hair_ to cast off this. But, ah, ah, alas, alas, there is normality's wicked figment.

The apartment swallows, drapes in its shadowed geometries. The city _steeps_ in the unleavened swelter that pleads with lips not parched but only heat-blistered for rain's cooling caresses. They will be deeply regretted when the steam becomes a stalking ravenous divinity, fingers outstretched and groping for blood and flesh and meat, animated only with hunger.

It will be delicious.

It will be to throw yourself upon the cool tatami and wallow in the sweat with curling toes and fingers pulling stroking tugging jerking.

And then heaving yourself into the bath.

But for this instant, this _moment_ , there is only the simple delirium in _this_. In the silence but for the city's intrusion while the windows are thrown open, while a desk fan scribes its sibilance, a rush and rattle and whisper over a cheek painted in sweat and craving.

There is more than algolagnia.

It is nothing so prosaic as nymphomania.

It is esurience.

Fingers forever trembling with a violence that's sexuality's essence condensed into perfume and churned and boiled into a steam that riots and rips up up up through _everything_. And the junk, Afghanistan's finest, Ayumi's bequest to her Goddess, well...

It is not to still this.

And it is not even to _embroider_ this, either.

It is an indulgence apart that does not lurk in addiction's territory. Addiction cannot overtake addiction. The fanaticism is a fundamentalism.

It is a fervor that does not proselytize; it is something explosive, flaring forever from the breast, but its announcement is not in language and only in deed. It is perhaps an Evangel of the flesh, of the meat and the bone.

It is cynical in its self-satisfaction, and guileless in its essence.

Quivering.

Stockings peeled away; the skirt sloughed off; the tee-shirt cast into the darkness and the bra melting into a distant heap with other orphaned bits of wardrobe and it is to be bare. Perfectly inviolably _bare_ ; a creamy pallor capturing the cold moonlight that scalds with venomous intensity upon the nude skin.

To sway and pirouette and it is not the karate- _ka_ 's shadow-boxing this evening, but only a dance. Slowly, slowly, it is the fundamental confidence the _surety_ in dancing with only yourself, with eyes closed, without even the mirror's judgment to admonish and upbraid. It is a waltz that suffuses itself with a grinding silent beat wrought from the heart's rhythm hammered with the smith's grace into ragged serrated violence.

Rear up and fall down; again and again and again.

The hips tremble; the ass' generous round _heat_ thrashes and pops up and recedes again and again and it's to know the toes' whisper over the exposed tatami, a long long _oh so long_ leg, damn, they're fucking _obscene_ , aren't they, in their perfection? Ah, ah, ah, self-love without narcissism. Toes settling with an elegant arch onto the sofa's cushion.

Introduce yourself to your silent audience and wheel away again.

There is a will a _wish_ for more, more, more.

And there is... Is a sense of the _sublime_ rising nearer and nearer to your grasp, pluming up from the floor like radon gas. It will poison you as surely as cyanide; it is a hastened apoptosis thundering along on swift galloping hooves.

It is delirious.

It is to dip down now, and to snatch up the works, because it is a rarefied moment when there is only...

 _Quietude_.

Tranquility; it is not that the dance is finished. It is never done, after all.

It is powders in their novel formulations; it is their purity savored and adored. It is _economy_ in their extortionate grace; it is to know the cocaine, the heroin, a _touch_ of morphine for its novel flavor. For the shabu to consummate a supernatural superhuman speedball _immensity_ , such purity that there's no need even to bother with a fucking filter.

Only the syringe; only the alcohol's cool brush on the elbow.

The tie-up _snapped_ around my left biceps.

There is muscle; still, still, oh, oh, _oh_ so sinewy, so lovely. So beautiful. It is not having _gone_ to fat; it is for the baby fat denied in youth's fanatical self-inflicted violences, _mommy's disease_ , you understand, the resentment and pain and suffering sublimated into pain and suffering _controlled_ , domesticated in karate's circumscribed mayhem, it is for _this_ to rear up, to surface anew.

Sleek and tight and _sumptuous_. The sexual ideal; an object of veneration, adoration. The tight belly; the navel's shallow divot; the slender lushness in the arms and the long, long, long legs. The breasts that flare upturned with exalted marshmallow dimensions.

The _prick_ jabbed into an elbow; a thumb caresses the plunger like a woman's clit.

Slowly, slowly, it _sinks_.

Flesh becomes a shrine to the junk.

There is a _chime_.

Madness while the heart quickens; while everything _hastens_ to convey this perfection, this delirium, through the flesh and the body and quickly, quickly, it is the soul, also.

A bell; distantly, there is a bell.

Church bells chime.

It is not Ayumi's fervor for what is not there, and what _is_ through the soul's and senses' transmutation.

It is only to know what is here _now_.

To open the eyes more, and more, and more, 'til they're simply flayed into perfect clarity.

To stand.

To dance now. To _fling_ yourself not at a pole, oh, oh, how _lovely_ that would be in its balletics, but only to twist and coil over the floor. To bounce and thrash and sway; to grind to a sleazy sawing riff that could melt Larry Flynt's fucking _head_ like a glimpse of _Indiana Jones_. Pound and lunge and jerk and the shoulders have dissolved into gelatin like a kitten's unset cartilage; know the writhe and swivel and ripple and the hips are emboldened more, and more, and more.

Fingers outstretched.

And it is to know your chest's thrash.

Its quiver and jerk.

It is not para-para.

And-

A chirrup.

A _familiar_ tone.

It is, of course, that cruel mandate named _work_.

Money, you understand.

Makes the world... Blah, blah, blah.

Snatch up the cellular; my soul's stereo has not died but is very quiet now.

"Yes?" Because there are no names. Vlad Ţepeş did not answer the phone with, _This is the impaler_.

Do not reflect on the historical inaccuracies in this.

"I, ah..." It's a woman's voice.

Thick.

Trembling.

"I heard that... That you, uh..." Shuddering; there is the essence of bile in the belly, clamoring to rear up.

"You heard what, exactly? This isn't a twenty-four-hour ramen shop-"

"I want to hire you. To- to be my Mistress." Oh.

Well.

"Who told you about me?"

"Uh... Yoshida- _chan_."

"You sound older than she is-"

"I'm in my forties." It's hot; stains the ears. "L-later forties."

"I see. Why do you imagine I care?"

"It's just... Ah, how... How do I say this? I..." It's more than _anxious_.

"Are you touching yourself right now?"

"F-fuck." Sharp; shocking. A paranoiac spurt through the voice. "H-how did you know that?"

"I can hear your slutty fingers groping at your dripping-wet sloppy pussy. That's how I know." Snarled into the line now. It's a lie, of course. No telephone is _that_ sensitive. "But you love it; you _knew_ I'd hear.

"Right? Is that what you think I do? Phone sex-"

"N-n-no! Not at all. I- I don't think that at all. I just..."

"Are you pretty? Yes or no?"

"Does it matter?"

"I asked you if you're pretty, you stupid fucking middle-aged slut. Did I ask you for an answer but yes or no?" It's a bark; cold and clarified violence of the tongue.

"I- I'm really pretty; I hear I'm pretty. Really pretty." A squeak.

"How pretty?"

"D-d-do you know, um, an- an actress? Kudō Yukiko?"

"What about her-"

"People tell me I look just like her! I'm mistaken for her all the time on the street!"

"You're lying-"

"I _promise_ that I'm not!" It's a strangled tortured squeal. It isn't a lie.

"All right. We'll see about that."

"D-do we- we meet publicly-"

"No. You send fifty thousand yen to the address I'll tell you in a moment with _your_ number; have it couriered over if you're _that_ impatient. And then I'll meet you. I'm not afraid. I will beat you senseless if you even _think_ of trying anything.

"And I'll decide what to do after that."

"I- I just..."

"And another thing. You don't have an _I_ anymore. A personal pronoun. You're _This Little Girl_ for the time being. Until I know more about you. Send a nude photo; you can keep sunglasses on, if you're _that_ anxious.

"But I want to know how serious you are."

"'k-'kay. T-that is, um, This Little Girl is okay with that." The voice's tremor is a delirium.

A sublimity.

"Good. This is my address." Now let the dance resume.


	2. Steuern

Tyranny. Is that not life's essence? Is it not society's _quintessence_? It is our very conception of reality. We will persuade ourselves that there is freedom.

There is no freedom in this life. There _cannot_ be freedom. Freedom is not the soul's and spirit's rights; it is not a natural ideal that eases the mind and the senses along vast grandiose inner universes, landscapes of the sensual, of the _human_. Freedom is something rarefied; freedom is not merely an ideal but a _being_. It is to taste a reality, a life, absolutely unconstrained with the shackles' leaden bulk. It is to cast the word _surrender_ from the lexicon.

It is to be without word, without voice, without this prepackaged convenience called belonging, called identity. It is an absolutism transcending all absolutisms; it is an unattainable thing. Even to _think_ is to feel the fetter's first cold caress _slithering_ with the Serpent's enticement.

Poisonous. This imagery, this _aspiration_ to a truth. Not courtesy of Ayumi- _chan_ , but you can feel it. Her venom; her delicious dreamy delirium in the will's simple force that hammers at you like a battering ram. It is to be trammeled with its elemental bulk. It is its _enormity_ washing over the spirit and the soul; it _hungers_ , eats, serenades with celestial flesh's ruination. It is to be tugged into the gnawing gnashing jaws. It is to be lavished with the wet crack of bone and the squelch and sputter of meat and the cannibal frenzy that is her conviction.

And it is mine; it is their collision and it is to know the simple impossibility in supremacy. It is to taste my blood seeping through hers; it is to know _hers_ sluicing into mine. It is fingers laced together. It is the carnal vampires' mutual insanity in this ambition to conversion that cannot be. It is a wish for addiction to overtake addiction, for magic to surpass magic.

It cannot be.

There is not the freedom for this. Hers is perhaps the nearest of any to it. It is not a charming humility; it is not a sainted simplicity. It is only a nakedness. It is a perfect and unperturbed and unpretentious nakedness; it is still to be conscious of our flesh, but for apathy to shelter and wreathe like Edenesque gardens' soft velvet foliage.

It is not yet to... Not to _regress_. Language is imprisonment, also, because language can only reflect the culture and its sensibilities. Its biases. The throttling ideals and absolutes. The faith named _normative_. Yes, yes, the normative perfections that are the axis around which all must be broken. It is the anvil on which society's weight will hammer all into a sainted homogeneity.

It _must_ be. Even in the words, we will find this. Rebellion is an impossibility.

Freedom is impossibility when thought in its sublimities, its purities, its _exacting_ geometries are to be warped around this, are to become a fragile frost dappling the cold iron that _We_ , the Great We, humanity in its pageant's immensity, its societies and its civilizations and its faiths and its empires and more than _anything_ its compromises, are. We are welded to one another; we _spear_ into one another.

It is not the hedgehog but the sea urchin; our spines are something absolute and defining and mutually parasitic. It is to know the brutal angry rake and rip into meat and to know the bone broken and stitched into your lover, your hater, your parents, your children, the whimsical maundering fingers that are an invitation to the scarlet-cheeked _revulsion_ and shame nestled in the soul's sepulcher called public transportation.

It is deeper and more visceral than this. Even before we are born, even before our mothers _shit_ us out into this world, this nexus of mother and father, enforced and inflicted in accordance with a compulsory self-abnegation, a prostration before the divinity called materialism, we are pummeled with this. Faint little mutters and murmurs.

Language coheres in minds that have not been permitted a choice.

Freedom is a fiction. Freedom as a word, the absolutes in their imprecision that would deny the deeper perfection in knowledge without knowledge, in an intuition that defies all else, is its own delectable bit of hypocrisy. It is paradox.

How can we convey freedom's ideal without language?

And how can we know freedom _with_ language?

All knowledge is imprisonment, also. In this House of The Rising Sun, this place where the inferno gathers and eddies, and where its passage is grudging, not quite yet huddled upon the equator in its sumptuous satin equanimities but altogether too fucking _close_ , there is a cruelty in tyranny more absolute than any other.

It is our ambition, ultimately, not to flee, but only to know a more rewarding one. The processed identities; the subcultures; the better-living-through-chemistry society that accords you a convenient _belonging_.

It is all flight surer than the heroin needle's pricking invasion into the flinching vein; it is a plea for liberation. It is for all to be fugitive, fleeing elusive headlong from _this_. From this simple being. From the act of _existence_ , something so elemental and ultimately dreaded with an immensity surpassing all else.

We have begun to resent our simple _biology_ ; not merely the body's imperfections, media-peddled and authentic, but its being. The act of _being_ ; life in its daily throttling meaninglessness. Because we will _seek_ meaning. And failing this, we will fabricate it. We will gorge ourselves on figments of worth and worthiness.

They will be found in the paper stamped with dead men's portraits, with sainted geographies, with morsels again that will heave another leaden slab upon our souls in the compromise in the collective. It will be in the act of consumption.

It will be in genuflection before the ideal named celebrity. It will be to sublimate ourselves into the figures that are glimpsed only as some strange distant abstraction, as surely fictive and still as profound as the divinities that are cherished in effigy. It is our will that they are to be animated, given _life_ , with the certainty that the idols tucked into temples and cloisters had in dusty carved-stone ages.

We are now curtained in plastic.

We are chromium humanity.

We are cyborgs; we melt ourselves and pour ourselves with our own will to be without will into this cohering kybernetik. We have gorged ourselves on the insanity named _sanity_. DSM and ICD and PSM and for the fucking cash-painted play-pretend commies the CCDM are our faiths. They are our new gods.

They are our new high priests.

Language will not die; no, no, no. Orthography will be transmuted, yes, but _language_ is something more than indispensable. It is control's most fundamental mechanic in the kybernetik.

It _is_ god.

Do you not understand?

Language is god. Even a godless society is still fundamentally tethered to this. God is language, because god is control. The atheists venerate a void that is still tinged with the noumenon named _divinity_. The name is ultimately meaningless, because the deeper guise is god. Is conquest. Is control.

It is our ambition not to be as gods, no, no, no. We are not 'Adam and Eve, whom Ayumi demands be called Hawa, 'cause she's cool like that. It is not even Lilith. We are content to be their offspring. I am not a Christian; I am not a Jew; I am not a Muslim; I am not a Buddhist; I am not a Taoist. I am not a traveler and not a voyeur and I am not a theological party-crasher. I am not an atheist, either.

I have _seen_. With eyes stitched closed and the third eye gouged out and planted on an outstretched palm, _crushed_ underfoot, I am finally no longer sightless. It is not in the drugs, either. Do not misunderstand.

The drugs are not the mind's horizons opened, because they are to taste the _deeper_ shackles in finer clarity. They are to efface the figments from the soul and the spirit and for the prison to be known in its fullest deepest immediacy.

To drag deeper than deep its immanences.

No. No. The _true_ epiphany is only in sobriety, in those moments achingly near to death's cusp when hope in its delusion has been cast away. When it is known that there is not the cynical selfishness, the solipsism that would brush away reliance, and there is also not the ideal named society, named culture. When you are there, and they are there, and it is only the moment's mere anarchy that will dictate the future. When the only order that is to be known is total disorder; when it is only _chaos_ in its most fundamental perfection.

It is blood and sweat and brimstone and the blade's sharp cold quicksilver wet and hot and red with death. It is life because there is only life. It is the simple _unfairness_ in mortality, because life is to deny this thing.

More than anything, it is the supreme entropy that is _being_. It is to capture reality's vernacular in this thing, to know that it is the hips' quirk the fists' crunch the body's ruination or its survival that is the truest language. That is the nearest likeness of freedom.

To cast away the fictions and know that there is no hope, and no hopelessness, either. There is only _being_.

To be free is to be an animal.

It is not possible to be an animal here. This is the fanaticism's, the fetishism's, this industrial algolagnia's plea. To know the closest likeness of animal absolutism in surrender to another's order. It is perhaps the only ambition for those that would still dwell in _this_ world in its orderly figments, who would rather not cast off this materialism's this _surety_ 's swaddling husk.

It is to prostrate yourself before another, and to debase yourself as a mere beast in their sainted audience.

Yes.

It is a package slipped into your hand. It is a nod; it is the simple unreality in _this_. In the bland faceless mediator with reality, a deliveryman like any other deliveryman. A fucking _courier_ ; it is the tawny uniform the bland textureless face that commands little purchase in the senses. It is the middling physique, neither memorably fat nor emaciated; it is an unspectacular _nothing_ in dimensions that are neither grandiosely handsome nor enchantingly ugly.

Just... There. A rap at the door that is not mine at all; it is the adjoining apartment. It is the neighbor's drowsy importuning quieted in any meaningful aggravation with the kiss lavished on her luscious sweet soft lips; it is a glance out into the corridor and he is there, and the package is being slipped into her hands with the familiar ritual pageantry and politesse that is as sincere as passionately reflective as returning a library book.

It is a smile that is not a smile; it is a simple nod, chin jerked up and down up and down.

It is a glimpse of humanity in its candid self-consciousness in profile; it is a perfection a _clarity_ that's an invitation to photography, to the Caraviggistis' achingly elegant technique not in photorealism but in an authenticity in the confluence of the subjective and the mechanically _exacting_. In the tenebrism that is the corridor; in the chiaroscuro that is Kaede's firm lean face, the faint _kiss_ of fat that is neither baby nor adult but just softness ornamenting the cheeks.

The long slender fingers cradling the package in the hall's sharp effulgence, stained with the sun's dappling caresses slopping beneath the awning.

It is another tedious mansion that is nothing that could merit the word. It is an extravagance, an engrish appropriation with our culture's fanaticism for the novel and the trendy and, well, let us be candid. There is nothing _real_ here.

We are a people still dwelling in divine delirium.

Even then, it is not only we People of The Sun.

It is everyone.

Sensation is electrical delirium consigned to the muddled confluences named consensus.

Sight is light in its imperfections; it is not only sight but our lenses' faculty to capture its vicissitudes, our neurology's command of these things. It is less than imperfect. It is more than flawed. It is almost meaningless.

Sound is air's pulsation.

We are collectively helpless without these things.

And touch? What is this but still the neurons' _bias_ , their conviction to construe a caress as bliss and a knife's squelching stab as anguish and there are still the visceral twists in this, the quirk that is algolagnia's gradations.

Death, also, can be delectation surpassing language.

It is to be nauseous, buffeted with this.

And nauseous, meditating upon humanity's delirium, its false certainties, its faculty to conflate the unknown with the known, to call ignorance wisdom, to exalt true wisdom as shameful disobedience. It is enough to shudder through the body to _tremble_ like a lone leaf lingering on a denuded tree captured in a hurricane that converges with a tornado that is pummeled with a hydrogen bomb.

It is not enough to burn. It is not enough to melt. It is the will not even to _be_ here. The monetarist madnesses that fuel our society's collective misery. The willingness to surrender to senseless tokens of paper.

The fiat inhumanity that whorls with the inferno's implacable hunger. It is to feed. For ours to be an incendiary culture; for our bodies to be but the fuel. It isn't fair.

Ah!

Here we are.

It's not fair.

This phrase. It's the object of last resort. Well, goddammit, it's just. Not. Fucking. _Fair_. Nothing is fair. _I_ am not one for whom this phrase has meaning now. I understand; I have _sucked_ it down into my lungs, atomised it, smeared it and tattooed it onto every vein and through every artery and it is my every nerve's name.

Unfairness.

Yes.

In love.

In desire.

In adorations betrayed.

In the simple _prevarications_. It is to have exercised patience; it is to have gorged yourself on a convivial ignorance; it is to have been human even when humanity is dreaded, when it is a curse, an affliction, an _onus_. And it is to have been betrayed in all of this.

To know that closing your eyes or opening them means little when only lies will be painted for you.

There is hatred. Here, here, roiling in the gut, there is a legitimate _hatred_. It is an animus; it is an odium.

"Hey, so you _were_ listening, huh? It's kind of strange that you have people bring stuff to _my_ door." While the city in its gradations, its convolutions, its corridors and antechambers and boulevards have become morsels of geography; while they are now galleries and bowers and great rivers and tributaries that slough off with little more than a muddy gurgle and where they are eddying streams dying in the swelter.

While the corpuscles twist in their shape and dimension, but are forever _distant_. The cars' insectile luster and their subdued thrum and sigh that coheres into a great _roar_ ; the humanity clopping and bleeding into a senseless dimensionless babel.

It is all insanity. This floor, also, amongst every other. To know that any alien peering through the atmosphere would know us only as the insects swarming amongst corn stalks indistinguishable in their cohesion.

It is all _madness_. Laugh, and laugh, because laughter is the language of reality.

And tears, also.

She is beautiful. It's something... Unreal. To glimpse the elemental _ordinariness_ in this; in the weary bored housewife whose life is not rot and not putrefaction but only stagnation. It is to have been consigned to expectation's oubliette. She is normative geometry's victim. She is pretty, but this must not be admitted in anything; to do so would be to rupture the familiar orders, the _expectations_.

The lithe proportions; the long long _achingly_ long and lean legs; the pert belly and the modest chest and the hair that has been maimed in expectation's image. It has been carved away to the dimensions they call _mother_. It is an unfairness; it is as sexless in its wickedness as the neurotic tribes that carve out a woman's clitoris at its root and ravage her cunt into scar tissue, lest disloyalty be tasted. It is fear.

It is an awareness that _power_ does not lie with the man. It is only the will to power; it is a dimension as fundamental as the architect's rage against the mountain. It is impersonation. It is perhaps an original sin; it is a fear that bleeds from Genesis, from the blood-steeped fertility cults that would cradle the young boy virgin and carve open his neck to nourish the land in its great black soil.

It is misfortunate that Monsanto has replaced this.

There would be fewer deaths with only an annual sacrifice.

Even her clothing is concession to ordinariness; the prim perversion in language called _mom jeans_. The short-sleeved blouse that is the warmth's admission.

The arms are fine and sleek and lean; exercise is announced with mom's self-abnegation, with the plea that the merciless yammering lusts the heavy juices and humors begging for outlet be subsumed into the sweat-steeping deed. It is impotent.

It is her husband's clumsy drunk groping once or twice annually, if even this.

It is the shame, it is the _humiliation_ , in budgeting his infidelities for him.

It is the ultimate enervation, the simple exhaustion, in being obliged to care about this. Tears have ossified into stone figments. There is only a shrug now with the husband in his wayward idiocies; there is only the admonition that the children's university funds not be drunk away or wasted on hostesses. Otherwise?

"You're so pretty, Ran- _chan_." There is hunger in her eyes. There is a fervor, a fetish, a fanaticism. It is stained in gradations of seifuku Sapphism; it is to recite ancient Lesbian poetry stained with dreamy _belief_ in this fantasy called The Future, named Progress, with a girl named Mariya- _tan_. It is memory lubricated with sake or cheap vodka or whiskey; it is tears poured out in a great splashing carafe.

It is her fingers.

It is an exhortation.

 _Would it be stupid if I wore my old uniform? I still can; I still can. I'm not **fat**._

No. She is not.

She is not fat.

She is beautiful; she is long-stemmed and graceful and she is the quintessential Yamato Nadeshiko and the words are something predictable, strange, adoring.

 _You don't look Japanese, y'know, Ran- **chan**. Why is that? Is your mom an American? Or- or maybe your dad? Korean, maybe? You look like one of those **beautiful** K-pop idols; but even better. You- you look like Sailor Pluto without a tan._

Ah.

Ah.

And she is being dragged through the door. Light betrays only geometry in the kitchen; in the dishes assiduously scoured and neatly heaped. In the bottles roosting in their orderly rows, patiently waiting for their politically correct annihilation.

It is a kiss.

It is fingers rearing up _slipping_ through her hair with the faintest little whisper.

"You should really grow your hair, you know, Kaede- _san_." A wince; a _torment_.

"C-call me Kaede- _chan_. Please. I feel like an old lady when you call me Kaede- _san_." Not _quite_ wilting; it is the stern blossom, but perhaps not the iron magnolia. It is the eyes huge and beseeching; it is the familiar compulsory myopia that will not surrender to the vanity in contact lenses.

But this is lovelier still.

"I _do_ love girls with glasses, you know, Kaede- _san_. I wish I had poor vision sometimes. It would be a _beautiful_ excuse for them." Admire her; _gorge yourself_ on her. Kiss, and kiss, and kiss, and it is an insouciance, a languor. "But you _really_ should wear your hair longer. I think Kaede- _san_ is perfect for you.

"Because you are _Miz_ ," oh so English, so _upright_ , "Kaede. You are... The lady of the house-"

"He hates long hair." It's something...

Predictable.

The _wince_.

The sharp brittle quality in this.

Ah.

The _specter_.

The _wraith_.

The cranky apparition whose visitation is a haunting, poised behind the business pages that could be read on the fucking train, but which must be enlisted as a surrogate for real intimacy, barking at her for another beer or sake or some tea and it's never wakamezake. It's never beer sipped from between her tits, modest, yes, but modest in the manner that a delicate bikini is still pornographic enough to have your head carved off by a yowling moralist.

It isn't fucking fair.

I know this.

It is the pauper's _outrage_ , glimpsing the rich man tossing a steak on the floor for being just a _kiss_ overdone.

What does it matter?

She is not perfect; perfection is phantasmagorical, idiotic.

"Fuck _him_ -"

"I wish. I wouldn't..." It is a tacit confession in the half-finished sentences.

 _I wish I could fuck Suzuki- **san**._

Not because I'd rather _not_ fuck you.

I'd rather not be tempted.

"I could simply seduce both of you. I've seen how he stares at _me_ , Kaede- _san_." Kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. A tongue _slipped_ with an achingly delicate ease between the lips that invite, that implore. They are there to be kissed; they are luscious, soft, a plumpness that awes. They are blowjob lips; they have not _tasted_ a man for eight years.

It is a confession; it is whispered with a lachrymal misery, with eyes rheumy at this wisdom.

 _I haven't sucked a cock for eight fucking **years**. And it's not that there was so much goddamn **fucking** during those years that I didn't have time for my lips. My pussy's shriveled up; it's just dying._

It is resurrected.

Lo!

It is Lazarus' cunt.

It is to touch her; to slip up the blouse along a belly that's perhaps a _bit_ too steeply chiseled, but there is a binary with age. One will either be tight and overmuscled or melt into fat. There is little hope of that sumptuous taut youthful balance.

"Y-you're hungry this morning, aren't you, Ran- _chan_?" Is that incredulity? It's her head thrown back; it's bare feet slapping over the tatami; it's her shoulders _clattering_ on the wall and it's her ass' muffled slap and her spine's slow sinuous arch, craning closer.

The thighs _splayed_ apart with anxious expectation.

"Yeah; I am. I haven't had breakfast yet." Nip and nibble at the long swanlike neck. The complexion is oh so faintly _kissed_ with a Japanese complexion; it is not the manga-perfect pallor. The eyes are heavily lobed; the hair shimmers like oiled bitumen.

"A-ah, ah, ah, Ran- _chan_ , I- I really don't have time-"

"You don't have _time_?" That would be something archetypal.

 _Kabedon_.

A palm _cracked_ at the wall.

"W-wah!" And there is still fear's sharp twang. There is a knowledge; it is somatic, preconscious. It is a wisdom in the flesh that you are with a domesticated animal whose bite is only when provoked, but something predatory, ferocious. It is the lady as the tiger; it is the wolf whose fangs do not glint in the cold moonlight but froth with hydrophobia's enchantment.

"You just came to deliver the package, Kaede- _san_? I have a _great_ deal of difficulty in believing that." And it is obvious; it is _ostentatious_ in the shiver and quake with a fingertip brushed over her tight belly.

Palms splay _sprawl_ out.

Nails prickle at creamy skin.

"W-well, it's..." It's an _ahn_.

An _uhn_.

An _um_.

It is hemming animated in the flesh; it is a tremor and it is legs nudged apart more, and more, and more, and _my_ knee eased up in a patient chorus girl's kick filtered through molasses oh so plodding oh so _patient_. It is a _brush_ ; it is her fucking ridiculous mom jeans as little shelter from _anything_.

"You know how _selfless_ I am, Kaede- _san_."

"I- I just-"

"You know, it's pathetic, isn't it? He doesn't fucking _care_ , does he? So long as _no one else_ suspects that you're, oh, what's the cliché? Hot-to-trot?" How witty we are. How delectable she is. Lips fastened on the throat.

"W-wait, ngn..." Groaning; a sharp tortured _squeal_ like a piglet tossed into a furnace. "W-wah, what're you-"

"What? No turtlenecks?" It's cruel. Yes.

Yes.

It's a brutal _kiss_ that becomes suction; it's the vacuum's caress.

"W-what'm I gonna tell my kids-"

"That mommy has a _very_ special relationship with Ran- _san_ next door; and when little Yumi- _chan_ and Hideo- _san_ grow up, if they're as _adorable_ as they are now, they should call her up-"

"G-goddammit, don't- don't talk about my kids like that." Why? Your _shackles_? It's nothing... Well, gentle now. It's fingers introducing themselves to the buttons; it's her belly exposed and now, now, the fleshly candor glides up, up, up, an ekranoplan creasing tranquil white seas. She is delicious; she is encrusted in a post-nuclear snow that scalds the fingers' pads.

A whisper and a shiver.

"Why _not_? Oh, you know, Yumi- _chan_ will be _delicious_ when she grows up. Are you _that_ worried? I'm not a _pedophile_ ; how un-Japanese of me. Not really even an ephebophile. I love _mutton_ much, _**much**_ more than lamb, you know. I'm just that kind of girl." Nip; nibble. "He won't care; _they_ won't notice.

"They're just so damn _adorable_. Really, darling, they are." Kiss, and kiss, and kiss; maunder along the throat's soft yielding _dimpling_ grace.

"I- I just came over t'd'l'ver'yer..." A _groan_.

Implosive.

"Why, you sound _just_ like you must have as that little chick from Aomori-"

"S-stop makin' me talk... Talk like a _hick_. Hya!" It's a heave; a _squeal_. "A-ah, ah, Ran- _chan_ , c-c'mon-"

"Listen to me, all right-"

"N-Nancy- _san_ , she... M-my kids' English tutor-"

"Oh, you need to be _very_ careful of foreigners. They go native like _that_." The fingers' sharp snap as punctuation. "They start to think that pedophilia is the law of the land. Which it pretty much is. I've _seen_ Nancy- _san_ ; she's _delectable_.

"Ah! Is _that_ it? Are you saving the sashimi for _her_?" Capture the eyes; the cheeks _indigo_ with a huge scalding flush.

"Not like that, no-"

"You're so fucking _fickle_. And here I thought that I was your _only_ infidelity. Looks like you're screwing around more than I thought. And here I was, so _charitable_ , going to recommend some discreet friends-"

"I'm not fucking her! I- I just-"

"You have a crush. A _gaijin_ crush. A _blonde gaijin_ crush. You're the worst kinda cliché, you know." Gloating; teasing. The shoulders tremble; the lips purse.

"You're _mean_ -"

"I want _breakfast_. I take my fish raw."

"J-just... Okay. Okay." How can this be resisted? The blouse slipped open, _carved_ away from the shoulders, and there is not surrender.

Not _resignation_.

It is not this culture's ugly sexual catechism in this sainted _rape_. No, no, no. It is eyes _smeared_ with a quality like gelatin roiling with a merciless boil; it is crazed and manic and delirious and it is to adore the soft skin, alabaster touched with a meager fine sunset reflection. It is fingertips plucking tugging _pulling_ at the jeans' button.

It is her fingers' tortured tremor; it is the package still clasped in the left hand, the right itinerant in its drunk staggering hunger, rearing up to a shoulder, maundering off to a cheek. It is a somatic plea; the lips are quietude in its simple perfection, because language has been denied worth and meaning and purchase here.

"Ngn... R-Ran, Ran, Ran." And honorifics _melt_. There is not the tyrant's obligation here; there is no _noblesse oblige_. There is not a will for this _little death_ , because death embraces whatever guise it covets.

"Uh- _huh_. Pleading for something, Kaede?" And there must not be these manufactured morsels of decadent propriety. Not knelt but _dissolving_ , down down down, a quicksilver elegance like a broken mirror in _achingly_ patient slow-motion, twinkling tinkling shivering shimmering. Sweat already cavorts along nude skin; hers and mine alike. We are warped reflections in the psychic and the corporeal.

There is a symmetry in the hunger, if not the meat, and the bone, and the blood.

A caress; fingers _jerk_ , yank, the waistline slipped down down down along long slim legs, still tinged with that most achingly luscious softness. There is awe.

There is _candor_.

There are no panties. Only bare bare bare flesh. Only the curls' heavy thicket cresting plump lips clasped together with delicacy's with _innocence_ 's affectations brittler than the first anemic crust of ice coalescing on a still pond in winter's stirring chill.

"Oh, you had absolutely _no_ interest, had you-"

"D-don't tease me. I- I just- I don't have any clean panties-"

"Oh, that's so _cute_." Admire; adore.

Eyes twist closer, closer, closer.

The soft skin; the puckered _plumpness_ in the luscious lips, oh so faintly wilting and still tightly cloven and ostentatiously still, an almost _rictus_ tranquility that doesn't merely belie but _accentuates_ the hunger, the weeping sticky lust dribbling down, down, down. Already, thready tendrils coalesce into cohesive rivulets pattering over the left thigh.

"You were touching yourself-"

"Y-yes!" Admission; confession.

It is not a brutal inquisition; it is a palm splayed out with fingers in a great creamy sunburst over her luscious skin, the belly's flourish from hips not boyish and not quite _voluptuous_ and still oh so womanly. She is a woman.

There is a novel sublimity in this. In the everyday that is still absolutely delicious. A kiss.

The first kiss that is not the first kiss at all. Lips clasped without patience, without restraint, without the familiar lingering cruel _tease_ and it is to know a warmth in the fragrance wafting up, up, _up_ through the nostrils.

"I _love_ born-again virgins like you; I _love_ women whose pussies haven't been befouled with a man's cum. It's just... It's so _sweet_. The soft mawkish richness." Muttering, murmuring. "Too bad for you, I'm _sure_ , but...

"Men are _rot_ 's genesis. You're just suffering from a metabolic disease. Like I am. A genetic defect. A desire for that flesh. For man-meat; it's a sick and defiling hunger. Isn't it?" There's silence; there's the lips clasped together.

But not _these_.

Not when fingers wreathe them; not when there is a _touch_.

The first touch. The enchantment in this caress; slowly, slowly, not some crude impalement, but only a delicate flitting meander up and down and left and right and it's an artistic elegance, less painterly and more a cross-hatched grace, geometries defined in negative spaces as intensely as the actual strokes.

"W-wah... A-ah, ah, ah, Ran-"

"Soon, _soon_ , we'll definitely need to introduce _you_ to my friends. Would you like that? You've met Ayumi-"

"A-Ayumi? T-that top-heavy schoolgirl-"

"Uh- _huh_. Isn't she lovely? Luscious? Delicious?" Another kiss; and this, this, this is for language not only to fail but to be put to the sword. It is a _jab_ ; it is a _stab_ ; it is the samurai executioner, the blade drawn up, up, up.

And swept down with a surgeon's finesse.

A _growl_.

A _snarl_.

A _wail_.

"A-ah, ah, Ran, Ran, Ran, r-right now, I don't care-"

"I _know_ you don't. Maybe Genta- _kun_ and Mitsuhiko- _kun_. Ah! Do you like Kansai boys? Hattori- _kun_ is just... Lovely. And there are others. Supplicants. Subordinates. Mmm... Have you ever fantasized about _one_ very naughty word, Missus?" There is another kiss, and another. Bathe yourself in her.

 _Anoint_ yourself with her. With her scent. With the ineffable; with the novel and the _sumptuously_ unique. And there is still a fundamental thread stitching together every woman. It is an elemental olfactory geometry; it is an alimentary _shape_ savored on the tongue, tumbling down down down into the belly. It is syrupy and thick and it is with fingers splaying her open; it is the tongue's plumb and caress, swept up and down and up and down again.

There is no patience now. It is for her fingers to stir my hair with the first pretensions, affectations, in delicacy.

Fingertips furrow the hair; they whisper with the essence of the spring's cool greenery ruffled and rustled with the wind's dewy breaths.

And they tear now.

Rake.

Rip.

 _Dig_.

Carve through the heavy drifts and _twist_ , pull, implore. A gasp flowers volcanic from her lips; the head is thrown back, bone upon wall meaningless punctuation.

"A-ah, ah, Ran, Ran, Ran." It is adulation; it is adoration. It is our implacable sacrilegious mantra, our irresistible compulsion for worship in the presence of the cut-rate divine. I am not a goddess; there are no ambitions to this.

 _Ye shall be as gods_.

I do not care.

This wisdom, this Freedom, it is not my world. There is only hunger here. There is a contentment with the _lust_ 's bite upon the wrists, the urgent terrible fetters that command without imploring, that demand without whispering.

There is only a roar. Her thighs splayed apart; and it is our familiar elegance, our acrobatic play. I am her life's axis, and I am mounted, and the right thigh is eased up, up, up, planted on my shoulder in an act of exalted balance.

"Ran, Ran, Ran." More, and more, and more. It is nothing so trivial as a _lick_ ; it is not to lap; it is not ice cream; it is not a simple dessert.

It is a confrontation with the succulent, with the delirious. It is to be intoxicated with an _inkling_ of a whisper of a kiss.

Plunge.

 _Immerse_ yourself.

Smear it.

Brush it.

Paint it.

The universe melts down into her; it is to know the world, every sense, every convolution, every gradation, simply _becoming_ her. Reality is a mad and dangerous warp; an implosive funnel that crushes down, down, down.

I am obsessed. In this instant, lust melts down and transmutes itself into something more elemental still. It is a stardust delirium; it is a crazed shuddering convulsion that shoulders away everything like sense.

It is to become wedded to her.

 _Welded_ to her.

There is heat. There is presence. It is no longer tyranny and no longer surrender but a parallel place a _plane_ that would reject anything so febrile in its absolutism. It is to know her thighs in their creamy trembling tension; it is to gorge yourself on the muscle, the sainted meat, that rears up into a relief that denies anything like its mere biology.

There is humanity in this.

In a kiss. In the tongue's endless crazed thrashing flit and flicker and it is to know _authentic_ addiction. It is not a fix; no, no. It is not the velvet feathering normality that is withdrawal, _the junk-sickness_ , finally leavened.

It is not that _banality_ that is relief from the merciless gnawing hunger that defiles and corrodes and desecrates.

It is the joy bang.

It is for everything but _this_ to melt away; it is to be bathed in a sensual mist that denies everything but itself. It is her body, and it is my body, and it is neither. It defies the pornographic absolutes, the certitudes in geometry. It is unpretentious paradox, the flesh renounced and affirmed at once.

Because nothing matters.

Not the veins aching, _pleading_ for that elusive _it_.

Not the mind hungering for the novel wisdoms that will ultimately bleed away into desiccated banality, because this is every thought's and every word's destination. It is not to deny their worth; it is only to admit their simple truth. They become stale; they are the fruit's essence, wrung of their sweet exoticism and simply wizened.

But this, _this_ , this is forever rejuvenated.

There is never weariness.

There is nothing but what it is in its immediacy. It is drunkenness as certain as the vodka quaffed down with a sharp gasp. It is immoderate and intemperate; it is to deny these things. It is to cast these away; it is to shred them into confetti and savor their fitful litter gingerly flitting on an unfelt breeze.

Everything enameled upon the skin. Kiss her, kiss her, rear up and know the flesh not yielding, no, no. It is _yours_ ; your lips melt into hers. Her body shudders, bears down, more, and more, and more, and more, and _more_. It is her palms now _clamped_ on the brow; fingertips tremble prickle prod and...

"A-ahnnn... T-that's..." An _ahn_. Soft and cooing but it is something evanescent in its patience. The knee fastened around my shoulder is convulsive; her body has simply been _gripped_ in lust's huge heaving inferno. She is borne aloft upon its great carnal currents.

She will soar.

 _I_ will be dragged with her.

Kiss and kiss; tongue rolling out, laving her with long, long strokes that displace the lips in their faintly rubbery elegances. Their perfumed allure. Their simple being is an invitation to the fingers' creep down, and down, more and more and more.

A caress along a knee.

There is a delectation in this. In the wardrobe's obliging exposure; it is not immodest, and it is not a habit. It is moderation that twists itself in an instant into the decadent. The skirt eased up and her eyes wheel with a wild feral frenzy at the first wet _stroke_ there. Panties eased away with fabric's silent submission; the finger is my own.

There is no delicacy.

There is no patience.

It is to impale yourself. At once, daggering, spearing, tearing, and it is an exotic act of sexual mathematics, one becoming two, and two becoming four, and... And it is the jaw's tremor still wrenched _cranked_ open to admit her body's exhortations.

Battered now with the heavy juices that coils and sluice out; tongue a wet unpretentious hunger against her, _through_ her.

"Y-yeah, yeah, _yeah_!" It is a scream.

In an instant, without preamble, without the familiar theater, without anything like affectation. Without patience. Without impatience.

Sound.

Presence.

"Yeah! Yes, yes, _yes_!" It is affirmation. It is to cast away life's dualities, its juxtapositions, 'cause they've been pulverized, _pulpified_ as surely as a steak introduced to a pneumatic hammer's passionate caresses.

A thunder.

Straining.

Pulled up, and up, and up, to greet the weight crushing down onto my lips.

"Y-y-yeah, yeah, ngn... R-Ran- _chan_!" Without hierarchy; only with obsession. "O-oh, oh, oh, okay, okay, _okay_ , 's- 's enough, right?" There is never this boundary, this threshold. It is an immanence in wisdom; it is a glorious divinity that announces itself in holy writ scrawled in a vast lightning spray across the eyes craning up to admire her through lashes dappled with lust in a few errant dewy motes.

"Does it _feel_ like enough-"

"S-she'll be here sooon! I can't..." Just be impolite?

Because we are polite, of course.

We exist to indulge others.

" _Fine_." A huff. It's something, oh, _insouciant_. A palm clamped on her left shoulder, and now her right, and there's a bleary delirium shimmering through the eyes.

"W-wah-"

"Well, _you_ didn't give me the time to savor my, ah, bit of sacrilege against Ayumi- _chan_ 's divinity, so ablutions must be made. It's only right. Right?" The knees gelatin; the body more malleable than metal dribbling from a furnace in sticky evocative immensity.

Hunger.

Pull her drag her _tear_ her closer, and closer, and there's nothing like resistance. Only delight; only adoration. The fingers clapped on my thighs.

Jubilation in the first stroke.

And the second. The tongue serpentine, wheeling out to lap at the molasses-thick threads liberated, gathered condensed in yesterday's depravities. In _today_ 's expectation. Muffled murmuring and there's nothing like gentleness. It is to mount her; to _surmount_ her. Ridden; bucking. Rising and falling and there...

There is something that a febrile idiot mind would call _masculine_ in the selfishness, in the impatience.

It is not their monopoly.

She surfaces with lust puddling on the lenses, eyes huge and gawping and orgasm's lovely prickling insanities still playing with a languorous numbness through every inch, gnawing at every nerve.

"A-ah, ah, all right." The words are something perfunctory from the lips; they're something to be said. They're the divine's dispensation for a bit of sacrilege. "That was _lovely_ , Kaede- _san_."

"G-g-glad you liked it. You came... Came so _hard_. Y-you squirted a little on me-"

"Ngn... That's just because your tongue is _sublime_." So she must be kissed; dragged up again, and it is to know the sublime _surrender_ in this.

An absolutism in her wilting listing delirium, still buffeted, still addled.

"O-oh, oh, the box." And still clutched in her left hand. Snapped open on the table. "Wow." Kaede's lust-dappled lashes limn a sodden little symphony through the sticky air, reality in its sodden sultriness already intruding through the balcony door flung open to embrace the day. "That's a _lot_ of money-"

"It's yours. Call it, oh, a gift. Buy a _very_ long wig. And some delicious new lingerie." And there will still be more than enough, won't there? "I'm _very_ enthusiastic about stockings, you know. High high heels."

And there's...

"H-holy shit!" Squinting.

Because we must disbelieve.

Because there must be incredulity with a glimpse of these things; these acts of obscenity, of profanity. We must deny the reality.

Kaede's voice a reedy little trill.

The photograph is a shimmering leaf quivering amidst the cash with an unfelt breeze in breath. She _is_ beautiful. A divinity in sleek elegances, oh so faintly dusky with the sun's dappling kiss. A glimpse of a thoroughbred beside Kaede's Clydesdale insecurities, whatever the reality.

"She- she looks _just_ like Kudō Yukiko." Doesn't she? There is not clarity, and not incredulity. It is only to reflect on the simple geometries. The urgent _awareness_ in everything; in sight and dimension and proportion. She is beautiful. Whatever the incidental likeness in our celebrity saints, whatever the act of impersonation, there is only the simple truth.

Swallow it.

 _Draw_ it deep, deep, deep. Suck it into the lungs. Waft the cash's mouldering paper aroma; choke down the banality in our beloved anachronism sainted immortalized in this culture's most exalted guise. It is to rejoice to _uplift_ in wealth's trite gradations. It is to know that you have Arrived, that you are most adored, most exalted, when your face is passage to our culture's most sainted act.

Consumption.

Hunger.

Yes. To be painted with these exalted bits of meaning in their ten thousand yen increments. It is historiography in a Playstation; it is to commune with your society, with the ideal in the collective, when narcissism triumphs and the public in its potential is consigned to the private.

Snatch up the fifty thousand yen. They are tucked into Kaede- _san_ 's oh so lovely and bewitching fingers.

"This is for you, Kaede- _san_ -"

"I- I really couldn't do that. It's just- that's a lot of money. I mean... For a student like you, that must be a fortune-"

"A fortune is a fortune. This's only fifty thousand yen. Five hundred dollars; less now, isn't it?" There's a murmur, lingering with a sticky lassitude on the syllables. Because Fukuzawa Yukichi is a triviality; he is a fat imperialist apologist, and the beauty captured not in dusty paper but in our more enchanting photographic alchemy _devours_.

There is a brazenness.

There is a _candor_.

Our public morality is affronted in this sincerity. It is not the geometry; it is the knowledge of what the geometry _reflects_. An Edenesque authenticity untroubled with the cold gray Stalinist bureaucrat's meddling.

It is to know the hair in its fine taut curls; the thick obsidian grace elegantly trimmed, cropped to little more than a meager little nimbus over the tight soft lips, a shimmering glint captured and embroidered with the camera's blaze, swallowed down into its unblinking perfected lens. The dusky elegance little more than a trivial grade darker than the sun-teased skin.

The long long _long_ legs. There is an awe.

Yes.

There is a word.

If there is an ambition to consigning thought and lust and craving and sensation and sensual fanaticisms that roil and pulsate and race through the nerves, that nestle with huddled stalking predation in the dark stygian places behind the eyes and between the ears, to a simple word, then there is a word.

It is fetishism.

It is fanaticism.

It is a fervor for this.

For the rarefied perfection in a woman's legs.

To know the sleek lush thighs; the elegant lean sinuousness in the calves; the geometries twisting, wheeling, whorling, rearing up and tumbling down down down to graceful arching ankles. Even the toes in their fuchsia-kissed nails.

She is...

Incredible.

"She has such _big_ boobs." And there is, of course, insecurity declaimed in this fervor. In Kaede's eyes immense and incredulous. "I've never seen a pair of tits like that. I- I mean-" And there is silence; sudden and throttling and _guilty_. The lips drawn taut with a dog's affectations of a smile over the adorable overbite.

"What is it, Kaede- _san_?"

"'s just... I- I mean, y'know, not- not that I haven't ever seen them in _reality_. But, um, in photography. I think yours are probably bigger-"

"I think I'm probably taller. There's no frame of reference for the photo but her sunglasses; but she's probably five-eight or five-ten."

"They're _huge_. Aren't they? And they're natural."

"Not explicitly." And we will meditate on the biologic vicissitudes in the heft. In the belly's lean roundness; not chiseled in grandiosely athletic sharp angularities but only the most achingly sumptuous pride in nature's beneficence. It is to know the satin planes kissed with some rarefied living oxymoron in lean fat. It is the faintest _whisper_ ; it is the navel's divot and the hips' lavish roundness. It is the chest's vast vast flare.

The tits' fall, and still oh so pert.

"She's obviously had _something_ done; she said she's in her later forties. At least a _lift_ for tits like that." There's warmth staining Kaede's cheeks. "What is it?"

"You just- it's so weird that you're, I mean, I guess _casual_ about that. Staring at a naked woman."

"I love admiring naked women. It's a pastime of mine, you know, Kaede- _san_." This is not a bit of conversational lassitude.

It is knowledge imputed.

Affirmed.

"W-well, I know that." How lovely it is to savor the dark eyes, averted in something that could only aspire to gorge itself on shame's sainted ideal.

Shame?

Shame?

It is self-indulgence; it is the _wish_ to be ashamed. To quaver with the terror, the _revulsion_ , in another's judgment. It is still algolagnia's sainted kiss. It is to know the twist and the quirk in the neurons, the synapses warped on their axes, clutching at the fulfillment in the pain's sharp kiss. And it is not this at all.

Culture, also, is algolagnia; and civilization, too. It is an act of sainted groveling; it is a lust for self-abnegation, for self-abasement. For the eyes in their anonymous judgment to be heaved into great esteemed constellations, their cold eldritch starlight preciouser than the sun's warmth.

She would _love_ to be the Traditional Wife.

The Perfect Mother.

There are fingers already laced through her hair.

The eyes are captured; they are swallowed as surely as plucking them from their sockets with nimble fingers whose nails have been bladed in their long lacquered elegance.

"I _hope_ that you do, Kaede- _san_ -"

"I- I- you're h-hurting-"

"Am I hurting you?" It's a faint little _tug_ ; not even a squeeze but the follicles only _teased_. A tension that stirs through the fragile flesh. "Am I _really_?" It's madness. I know that it is. How can it not be?

We are all mad.

To dwell in this place of long reaching shadows and the light's shelterless inferno, how can we not be? We must all be mad. We must all gorge ourselves upon the delectable figments in these sainted fictions named Freedom, Liberty, Rights, Privileges. They are all only Capitalism's children. It is all in service to the Gray Men that lurk in the towers that define our horizon in nature's truth's denial more surely than any mountain, than any sea.

It is not Leninism.

It is not Marxism.

It is not Communism. No, no, no. It is only an admission of the truth.

We are all children, groveling and pathetic; we are all slaves dwelling in pens wrought from our own febrile fantasies of being the masters. The heat is stoked in the material selfishness; in the self-indulgence.

Kiss her.

The heat is nurtured with the Idol's squeal.

Kiss her.

The heat is inflamed with the grandiose apartments.

Kiss her.

All is as vaporous as morning mist.

And still, still, her lips are there to be kissed. The hair cropped to its Housewife modesty is still there to be stroked. Grass carved to little more than stubble is still grass. The spirit is something that can only be stamped out in its own surrender. It will carve out its own roots and exuberantly offer itself to the sun's bleaching depredations.

Her mouth entrances. There is a softness, a sweetness, stained and steeped in me. And I with her. It is an act of reflected onanism, sexual narcissism. The hair will not yield; it is firm, stern. The mouth is a fine cherry blossom bow, trembling, the eyes rheumy not with tears but only lust's manic fervor.

"I- I need..." A gasp; a shiver; a _heave_. The breasts still bared in modesty's pretension, cradled with the bra's tight band. The flesh percolates up, oh so delicately, the fabric well-fitted and there's still the faintest _kiss_ of a vain seam along the pert sepia skin. "I need..." With lips adoring her throat; with fingers tangling now like some diabolic seaweed around her wrists.

"You need _what_?" A murmur. Slowly, slowly, softly, softly, a deliberation in everything. The dancer's grace; the simple _production_ in every quirk, every whisper, every act, every deed. It is a perfection. It is a sublimity.

"I- I should be go-wiiiiing." A whine; a hot high shrill tremor that's the essence of the desert's arid breath pluming aloft in great scalding currents.

" _Really_? Oh, will the blonde beauty be disappointed? Why, you're _already_ so disheveled. And you _reek_ of pussy. Mine. Yours. It's a fine fragrance for you-"

"I need to go. Really. Really." Conviction.

"You know, you're just the most _delectable_ housewife, aren't'cha, Kaede- _chan_? I think I'm _desperately_ in lust with you. Maybe even a little poisonous bit of that... Oh, proprietariness." Fingers tumble down, down.

Dagger into the tight belly; lace around the lithe waist to capture her ass' delectation in taut lush roundness.

"Ah, your ass _really_ compensates for that tiny chest. I'm still, well, I'm _always_ incredulous at the stupid shit that men do. The Y chromosome is corrosion's locus, you know. If you could mend _that_ , transfigure every man into a woman, this planet would actually be livable."

And there is still the defiance.

The _plea_ for relief.

But this is what it is. It is a plea; she is _beseeching_ me. It isn't power seized, _snatched up_ in the defiant fingers.

It's a _wish_ for the divine's indulgence.

It is a prayer.

"I- I really need to be going home."

"Of course. It would be _quite_ the scandal, wouldn't it? Maybe you should just invite, ah, what's her name? Nancy- _san_? Delicious; soft; sleek; lean; blonde. If you invited this little novelty over for tea _here_. I am, after all, one of your friends. I speak fluent English."

"I- I didn't know that, Ran- _chan_."

" _Et Français_. _Und Deutsch_. Well, maybe not French _that_ proficiently. And Ayumi- _chan_ is even _better_ cultivated. We're the ten thousand yen ideal, you know. So _international_. And not at all of this place because of it. Where's the Yamato Spirit in us?" But then again, where is it in _you_?

The eyes are cold. There's a moment's fleeting sharp epiphany. A pang _rips_ its talons through the breast. It is awareness. A philosophical knowledge in the ragged tattered shards' edges. That they flit and flutter like tempest-tossed medieval pennants, but they find no purchase on their poles.

They are there.

"All right." Slip away from her. There is something... Something _venomous_ in it. There is lust, yes; it will not cool. Its embers are a cold white and still, still, it would be the folly in groping at the coals when the inferno in its huge thrashing garnet tongue has dimmed to memory.

It is most violent at this moment; most intense. There is a will to touch, to taste.

"You know, I wouldn't mind it." While the blouse's buttons are eased into their familiar modesty again with a deliberation that aspires to memory effaced.

While she is silhouetted against the door frame.

"W-what wouldn't you mind?" Without turning.

"I wouldn't mind doing more with you. If you'd like me to find a man for you to fuck, I'll be there so you can be comfortable. You've never had a ménage, right?" Quiet, quiet, oh so quiet.

But the shoulders are more eloquent than the lips; the hips more articulate than the shoulders. The fingers' tremor betrays the heat coiling like nested vipers in the belly.

"A-ah, I- I don't think that's a very good idea-"

"Why? It's not like you'll be forced to do it raw. Not that it'd matter. Mmm... Are you on the pill?"

"Why would I be?" There's a bladed mirth in it.

It's an act of nuptial seppuku, every syllable a twist through the belly.

"I guess you're right. You know, if _I_ had a cock, I'd never be satisfied. I'd fuck you 'til your cervix just _tumbled_ out on the mattress. I'd hammer you against the wall; I'd raise you up in my arms and smother you with my tits and _fill_ you like an éclair. It would be delectable.

"I think you'd begin to appreciate the gradations in every day's flavor. Even in my diet. I definitely wouldn't drink like Suzuki- _san_. I _do_ drink. A great deal. Mmm. I'd _forgotten_ to ask you. Are you a square?"

"Wha?"

"A square? Y'know, a rectangular object, daddy-o? Do you use?"

"I- I don't know what you're talking about." Turning, oh so slowly. But the cash is still clutched in her left hand. The eyes devour it in their conscious blindness.

"Mmm. No? I'm talking about, oh, heroin, cocaine. Those _delicious_ chemistries. Idiots delude themselves they can see god with them. That they're conduits to the divine. They're not. They're just... They're a reintroduction to _yourself_ , you know.

"Your own body tasted like you _never_ have. Fucking on heroin is something you should _definitely_ taste-"

"I don't- I don't want to get addicted." This is our cultural morality's basis.

It is economic.

It is flinching from stigma.

"Oh, you won't. It's a myth, you know. Not addiction. Just the ease. And, well, an addiction can't displace another. Aren't you already addicted to this?" To the tee-shirt simply... Eased up, up, up. With unperturbed languor.

Breasts not bared; the bra is modester than the bikini that context obligingly launders in platinum sand and briny sea air.

They are still there. Large; larger than this word can accommodate. The photo plucked from the courier box; a graceful juxtaposition and a simple symmetry.

"A woman's body. Mmm. Mariya- _tan_."

"Don't talk about her." It is a sincerity in anguish.

"I could find her, you know-"

"I- I know where she is. I know where she is. I..." Swallowing, slowly, slowly, a tortured thick burden in the throat. "Why're you talking about this, Ran?" Intimacy; such unpretentious intimacy. "You look so _angry_."

"I am. Just not with you. I have these pangs. Do you understand?" Of course.

You do.

 _I_ do.

All ultimately must.

"I- no, I don't really get it." The smile's wan and pathetic and mendacious.

"Of course. I, ah... I know about Mariya- _tan_ , too. She really _is_ pretty-"

"Stop talking about her." It's not the familiar ambition to meek invertebrate surrender. There is iron in this.

"Really? Why? Worried that I might, oh, decide to introduce her to a bit of extramarital-"

"Shut up! I'm- I'm going!" The door jerked open; a sharp clatter.

The cash unreturned.

Oh, well. The photo is there, clutched in fingers cinched around the sleek sweat-slick sheet. It's something strange, this figure. The fanaticism that _roils_ in the gut; the breathlessness in the scalding iron fist fastened around the lungs.

It is something Teutonic; it is a knowledge of a jackboot clamped on your throat. It is a kick, once, and again, and again, and it is a convulsion that gathers with a slow syrupy elegance, a patient plodding grace that belies its immensity.

It is eschatology's first seismic tremors.

It is the first _ripples_ that rupture the pond's serenity. It is to know the first individuation, the Genesis in this. In the creation that tears the wavelets from their unburdened cohesion in the pool.

It is the first hot wind that plucks a cherry petal from its branch.

It is... Strange.

Ruptured with the cellular's familiar chirrup. Frustration.

 _That's_ what it is. It's the anguish companion to a philosophical epiphany not only within your reach but your _grasp_ ; savoring the fingers' first fitful brush upon its strange unknowable geometries.

And you are tugged away.

"Yes?" Snatched up. There is no salutation, because there is no politesse for this gossamer thread that tethers me to their lusts.

"Ah, uh..." A murmur; a soft articulated little sigh.

"Who is this-"

"It's- um, did... Did you get the package I had couriered over?" It's fragile, the whisper that isn't morose, and not retiring, but only wilting like a lily grafted into desiccated desert sand.

"How much was it?"

"A-ah, what? I- I don't-"

"Am I to infer that you've decided against this?" There's only silence.

Long.

Reflective.

"A-ah, pardon-"

"I told you that you don't have an _I_. There's nothing _personal_ now about you. If you'd like to do this, you're property. You're _my_ property. It's only incidental that you're allowed to have your own fucking body." There is...

It _is_ addiction.

It is not this.

Not this fervor called _power_.

Not the junk.

Not the cocaine.

It is something transcending these humble dimensions; it is something surpassing the flesh's prosaic boundaries. It defies language in its imprecisions; it is something that is not of the celestial, riven from the meat.

It dwells in an unreal borderland, a dreamtime awareness that is tasted in nothing predictable. It is _creation_ 's anguish.

It is perhaps the divine.

Superstition. Idiot superstition in children groping and clutching at meaning, at figments of order in the ostentatious disorder that announces itself in life's great wheeling scope like an electron cloud pulsating and heaving and throbbing with the multitudes in their uncountable constellations, their great heaving throngs of thousands and thousands of thousands and thousands of these thousands of thousands.

The planet _trembles_ with their bulk, their immensity, but their very being their _essence_ is denied.

Is unfelt.

We would aspire to shackle all to perfect orderliness, and invite the entropy deeper into ourselves. We would be persuaded to offer ourselves in our thoughtless unreflective _obedience_ to the tyrants that gorge themselves on this plastic Order's evanescent produce. We will not starve; we are not of this _system_.

All is simply orders in their orders.

We no longer dwell in the first.

The second slips from our grasp.

We are a simulacrum.

And our simulacrum becomes simulacra.

I dwell here, also. It is the anguish in _impotence_. It is the _rage_ , the fundamental meaningless powerless _rage_ , that is companion to sightedness without limbs, without strength, without the power to remedy what is seen. There is a compulsion to roar and howl and heave, and there is also the understanding that it would accomplish _nothing_.

Even with the Power in its fullest scope, even taking hold of the sainted divine, what would it matter? A lone god is still only the god of their lonely world. The Fool on The Hill.

Yes.

Jaw clenched.

"Ah, um, are- are you still there, um... M-Mistress Orchid?" A whisper; a shivering.

"Yes? What? I'm not obliged to listen to you." It's so fucking petty. I know this.

"It's... T-this Little Girl, um, she... She was- was so excited to see you-"

"Mistress Orchid. Don't presume that I'll condescend to hear _you_ from your lips. Even when they're perhaps very far away. You've never done this before, I infer."

"N-no, I- that is, This Little Girl hasn't, Mistress Orchid."

"There's no one else to whom you'll be speaking without my imprimatur, so don't imagine you have a fucking _need_ for pronouns."

"A-all right. This little girl was so excited to see Mistress Orchid that, ah, that she couriered the... The money and picture right over. Does Mistress Orchid like it?"

"Yes. A great deal. You really _are_ a remarkable likeness of Kudō Yukiko. You're gorgeous. I'd never _imagine_ that you're in your late forties. Whatever that means. But you're wearing sunglasses. What's your eye color?"

"Um, blue."

"Like Kudō's, huh?" A slow syrupy languor; it is to settle with a spine-arching lassitude at one of the chairs planted in family orbit in grandiose affectations of normality around the table.

A quick _slap_ of your ass on the seat.

"That's- that's right. I guess. Ah..."

"Is it a natural tan? You don't have tan-lines."

"This- This Little Girl goes nude sometimes." Isn't _that_ quite the confession?

"What a _disgraceful_ whore."

"It's- it's a private beach-" A plaintive _beseeching_ little whine.

"So you're rich, huh? Well, that private courier was probably pricier than the fifty thousand yen. Or not. I don't really care. Touch yourself."

"W-what-"

"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, you _stupid_ inattentive fucking cow. You're not accustomed to this. But I told you to fucking _touch_ yourself. You're going to touch yourself." It's not a growl, not a snarl. It's something perfectly convivial. Because this _is_.

A conversational ease in this delectable cruelty.

Every word is the palm's sharp wet crack on cheeks shimmering with tears.

"Yes. Yes. This Little Girl, um, she's- she's at home right now, and... And she's not really alone-"

"What? Worried your housekeeper will be _scandalized_? You're beautiful. I think I'd _adore_ seeing you touch yourself. If only we had a line between us. Alas, alas. But the serenade alone will be enough.

"I want you to open up your slutty thighs and stroke your pussy. Right now."

"All right-"

"That would be _yes, Mistress Orchid_. There's nothing noncommittal in your conviction. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt. Have you ever done anything like this before, whore?"

"N-no, This Little Girl hasn't, Mistress Orchid. Just... Why are you calling her that?" It's a taut twanging anxiety in the voice. A sharp hard-ribbed tremor.

"You're really asking me? Sincerely? You're asking Mistress Orchid that?" Laughter; laughter. Comic cartoonish _pantomime_ laughter.

A villainess.

The quintessential Wicked Lady.

The Princess curtained in lace and latex and with bitch heeled boots ground into your palm.

Oh, my, my, was the little peon expecting _delicacy_?

"You're asking _me_? It's because I'm Mistress Orchid. _That's_ the reason. I'm Mistress Orchid, and you're slave to my every whim. Why should the willow ask the hurricane why its fragile little limbs are being pulled and twisted and _broken_?

"If it appeals to me to beat you senseless 'til you can't even _imagine_ opening your eyes, that's my prerogative. If I wish to steep you in luxury and venerate your every inch, it will not be _your_ privilege but _mine_. Do you understand?

"Am I understood? Do you understand Mistress Orchid's words?"

"Yes, Mistress Orchid." It is obedience.

"Now, I'd like to hear from your nasty dripping cunt. It _is_ just _sloshing_ with lust, isn't it?" Silence. Silence.

Why?

And the answer is not defiance, and not the phone tossed away with horror's sudden violent epiphany gripping the heart, _Oh, fuck, I **cannot** do this._

It's wet.

Sticky.

A sumptuous _breath_ through the line. It is to know a delectable symmetry in the lips' dewy grace. In her mouth's shiver, in the wet-petaled allure that plumes up, captured and conveyed with figments of authenticity through this grandiose electronic figment in communion, in intimacy.

And it is still here.

" _Can you hear it?_ " Muffled; muddled. " _This... This Little Girl put you on speaker phone, if- if that's okay, Mistress Orchid._ " It is the essence of quavering knees. There is something almost queasy in the voice.

It is transgression.

"Are you married, slut?"

" _Yes._ "

"And yet, _still_ , still, you're... What, are you unhappily married?"

" _Yes._ "

"Why is that?"

" _It's humiliating-_ "

"You want to be humiliated. Tell Mistress Orchid why. How many fingers are stirring your cunt so _noisily_? It sounds... Absolutely _drenched_. Is that _cum_ inside you?" It's a delectation, savoring this sonic sensuality.

It is to know _your_ thighs slipped apart.

It is not self-abnegation; it is not _noblesse oblige_ 's patient restraint.

It is only the flesh's irresistible pangs.

It is pornographic; it is not at all. It is not the prepackaged prosaic in another's will, another's whim, another's _flesh_ captured in the digital indelible for those whose imaginations have been permitted to atrophy, or whose convictions wilt beside the elemental chest-clutching terror in fingers outstretched, in the voice upraised.

It is all painfully pathetic.

We are all simply bound to our bodies; we are all shackled to them.

The priest and the hedonist.

We are merely two faces of a Janus being.

Touch, and touch, and touch. Toes curling, bare on the tatami underfoot. The spine arches; jaw clenches; the universe has melted down not into light and darkness but only gradations in flesh, warm and raw and ripe and fresh and _hot_.

It is meat and bone and blood.

It is her body.

It is hallucinatory; it is the most sumptuous junk sloshing through the veins and burbling up through every artery. It does not creep but sluices, spills, through the body's every reach.

Fingers are animated with their carnal steam.

A touch.

The first long slow lingering graze. It is a single finger; it is a universe condensed into this.

" _It's- it is cum inside This Little Girl-_ "

"My whore. You're my whore now. I don't think _This Little Girl_ is appropriate for such an _older_ lady, do you? After all, Mistress Orchid is only in her twenties. So you're now just my whore. Are you happy about that?

"Mmm. But it's a bit different, isn't it? After all, it's not often that a whore pays their client for the privilege. I'm thinking more about _what_ you are than _who_ you are. You're just a sloppy sopping heap of meat begging to be degraded.

"Whose cum is it?"

" _Your- your whore's... Lover's_ -"

"You have a lover? Well, isn't _this_ interesting?" Lingering on the words.

A jab.

A barbed spear raked down the spine.

"You have a husband _and_ a lover? My, my, quite the _European_ relationship, isn't it? Unhappy at home. What about your lover? Unhappy with them?"

" _No, Mistress O-oooorchingn..._ " It _springs_ into being.

Sudden.

Jarring.

Something explosive; it is something that international treaty bans, you understand. A nuclear weapon simply unfurling from the ocean's depths, the darkness becoming light and even the most effulgent afternoon dwarfed in the pygmy sun that is our greatest feat.

It _is_ our culture.

Another materialist divinity to be tucked into the pantheon; a cudgel wrought in scientific inquisition. We will laud this thing.

Heaving now from her lips. Channeling it in sexual séance. There is a gurgle a wheeze something that could almost be mistaken for a _retch_ in its bitten-back violence.

"You _came_ , didn't you?" And how can you not tease with treacly figments of adoration?

"Yes, yes, yes, yes, _yes_. Your whore is going to again!" What delicious _comfort_ with this.

" _No_." Not a snarl; not a roar. A simple admonition. A newspaper swatted on a truculent puppy's snout.

"W-what-"

"I told you _no_ , slut. I haven't come even once. You're not going to come."

"Your whore can't hold it back; your whore can't help it. She's- she's too sensitive. Your whore's pussy can't take _this_ -"

"Then stop touching yourself." It's something absolute now.

A judgment.

"W-wha-"

"Stop touching yourself. You'll be barred from even _admitting_ that you have a pussy until we meet, slut. No touching. No stroking. Not even clenching together those _delicious_ soft thighs. I've decided what will happen.

"Tonight. I will meet you somewhere mutually agreeable to us."

"A- all right." It's a whine. A piteous little _mewl_. "All right-"

"You'll dress as _I_ stipulate."

"Of course, Mistress-"

"Kneel. Now. Wherever you are. Fall down to your knees." It is a faint little whisper in fabric. "What are you wearing?"

"A- ah, um, your... Your whore," still, still, the sonic essence in scarlet cheeks. "Your whore is wearing a miniskirt and... And a blouse and panties-"

"No stockings?"

"No, Mistress Orchid."

"You will be tonight. You'll be my toy; you're delicious. I love your hair. Wear it loose like in the photo. Do you wear glasses?"

"Yes, Mistress Orchid."

"Is your vision poor?"

"It's just... It's a little embarrassing. Your whore's eyes aren't like they used to be; your whore needs them to see up-close-"

"Oh, so _that's_ what it is, huh? How _mortifying_. Your long slender arms just aren't _long_ enough now, are they? You know, I've never had an _authentic_ old-lady whore before. Those tits, well, _those_ are very young.

"And your ass, I'm sure. I couldn't quite see it in the photo. Is it large?"

"Yes."

"Sublime. You'll wear your glasses."

"Yes, Mistress Orchid." Such perfect compliance. It _rakes_ through the flesh.

It puddles between thighs whose muscle rears up with the essence of a submarine breaking dark waters.

"Ah... I'm... Ah..." It's not _coming_.

It's simply here.

At once, at once, a sudden convulsive violence.

A corporeal mayhem in your head thrown back.

 _Flashdance_ perfection and jerking hips and fingers not even splitting open the lips but only stroking stroking stroking relentless huge spasmodic stripes over that pearl that rears up hungry and brazen through a hood that's only Salome's veil.

"Fuck. Fuck. You're going to wear your _sluttiest_ clothes tonight. Stockings; garters; bitch heels. Do you have any patent leather?"

"Ah, yes, Mistress Orchid-"

"Then wear that. I'll choose your clothes from now, whore. Wear leather heels; wear _anything_ that gleams like someone's already smeared it with cum. A tube top that will _barely_ keep you out of jail and will definitely nurture more than a few fantasies in salarymen's corrupted hearts, _begging_ to just cast off all the cowardice and finally fucking _touch_ you.

"A skirt that's more a belt. I want to be able to see the stockings biting into your soft plump thighs. Wear something flamboyant. I think, oh, violet. Do you have violent lingerie?"

"Um, yes, Mistress Orchid."

"You're afraid, aren't you?"

"People will look- will look at your whore like she's..."

"A whore?"

"Yes." A whisper. Once, and again. "Yes. That's right-"

"You _are_ a whore."

"Ah-"

"You _are_ a whore. Slap yourself. I want to be able to hear it. You're going to need to become accustomed to that. What? Did Ayumi- _chan_ intimate to you that I'm _achingly_ delicate with girls because I love them?

"No. I break my favorite toys. That's how I've become. Hit yourself; hit yourself; _hit your goddamn slutty cheek 'til you start to tear up_!" A snarl.

It is the tyrant's expectations, her _certainties_ , disappointed in quietude.

Until there is the first _crack_.

Once.

And again.

And again.

"It hurts!"

"Good. Hit your cheek again. I wish I had a cock, you know. I'd rape you 'til you _wailed_. It would be so lovely to pump your nasty holes, to fill them with jizz. Too bad, I guess. But you're going to take another _huge_ wad of cum inside you before you come tonight.

"I want it still to be dripping out of you when you're with me. I want to be able to dig it out with my fingers and smear it on toast for you to eat. Do you understand? I'd have you not wear panties, but, well, _that_ would be just a little difficult, wouldn't it?

"Be sure they're almost perfunctory; a little stripe for your pussy and _nothing_ for your ass but a tight little band to cleave those cheeks apart. Understood, whore?"

"Understood."

"Good _girl_." Cooing now. "Good _girl_. Now, keep slapping yourself. Anywhere; serenade me with it. Don't bite back _anything_. If you scream, scream for me. But set your phone on the table. I'm sick of listening to your sniveling. Meet me at the Hyde Suites; room eight-thirty-nine." There is no protest.

No _simpering_ that this isn't...

Isn't _appropriate_.

"Okay." Obedience.

A crack.

Wet.

Sodden.

The palms _stain_ her skin. The imagery is already painted in great impressionist strokes, muddled and nebulous in their ambiguity, and still oh so _delectable_ in the perfect clarity that is the soul's subjectivity.

Toes curl.

Fingers _dagger_ between my thighs. They are not anything so banal as this in its childish onanism. They are not that measure of communion stitching together humanity in its groping hungers. No. No.

They are _her_ lips.

"Ah... Ah... Wear violet gloss, also. B-be sure your makeup is as _slutty_ as you can manage. Nothing airbrushed; make sure it's _cheap_. The trashiest liner and frailest mascara. _Nothing_ labeled waterproof. Otherwise, I'll scour it off with your own fucking tears.

"Do you understand?" Her tongue.

Her lips.

Her mouth.

Of course she understands.

There is no need for an answer. Nothing. Nothing. She is knelt here. It is more than apparition; it is simple _being_. Conjured not in imagination's alchemy but in simple flesh. She is here. With the grandiosity in degradation without self-loathing.

Only the elemental wisdom in genuflection; creeping, slithering between venerated thighs.

Kisses like a butterfly's quick fluttering wings captured in a monsoon.

"Ah! Ah! Yeah! Yeah!" Fingers become her tongue, her touch, her adoration. "Ah. Fuck. Fuck. Oh, you'll- you'll be _swamped_ with me tonight." Dragging up huge sodden gouts from the flesh. Fingers coil and twist and _taste_ the gradations in texture, the luxuriant wet-velvet allure in coils clenching clutching _groping_.

Because she is there.

"I'll... I'll _more_ than fuck your face; I'll rape you 'til you sob. You'll be pleading for mercy; and you'll be begging me _never_ to stop. This, _I can promise_ you, whore. Y-yeah... Ah, ah, _ah_." It isn't thunder.

It is not the braying porno affectation in excess.

It is.

Selfish.

Shivering.

Fingers dragging up the shirt's hem; the bra simply _tugged_ down with a quick jerk at the thick black band. And there is a madness, a fanaticism for this. A self-love in the plump luscious fat and the lean muscle undergirding it.

A _delirium_ in that quaking marshmallow madness.

Ours fall together.

The lips, also.

Gorge yourself on yourself.

Language melts down.

Imagery has become something distant and perfunctory.

Defined geometry muddles itself into protean lysergic acid Monets.

And there is now nothing like _shape_.

Formless and twisting and coiling into themselves. A Möbius strip psychosis; my body and hers have been divested of anything like _being_ in this strange parallel place. There are no toes; no fingers; no hands; no feet; no legs no arms no faces nothing nothing nothing but a primeval _water_.

Yes.

Yes.

We are as water, _splashing_ together.

Individuation denied.

A shudder in teeth ground together while the nipples are not only strummed but tugged twisted tormented tortured and...

Silence.

Stillness.

But not the cinematic flair in the bomb's thunder's recession. No. No. These are the mischievous fingers that jam, that defuse, that stymie, that _thwart_.

There is only anxious quavering _rage-stained_ raw red insanity.

It is self-inflicted denial.

It is the knife rasped over a whetstone alive with rarefied oils.

"Meet me at eight tonight, or you can be _sure_ you'll never hear my voice again, whore."

There can only be obedience.

Yes.

Standing.

The cellular snapped closed.

And fingers do not grope, but are achingly patient with breakfast. With the tea water puddling in the kettle.

With the mug that is nestled upon the table, an elegance in geometry, centered with exactitude that whispers of anal retentiveness that could imprison an enraged elephant.

A tremor and a trill and a keen.

The fragrance invades.

And the hand's swipe is a deeper languor still. Because it is artistry; because the mug's fine alabaster pallor is best appreciated melting into brittle chiming shards that liberate the scalding tea in a vast splash across the floor.

It creeps like blood capturing starlight, twinkling and convoluted in its geometries.

There is blood now.

The shards not gingerly prodded as they must be, but snatched up, roiling with the tea's cooling dregs. There is not an obscenity, because this is not the point. There is rejoicing; there is a sense of fortune, of serendipity in this.

The palm torn.

The fingertips dappled.

Blood, rich and raw and authentic, _life's_ sublimity, it limns its own oracle-bone fantasia across the floor, and it is to be awed, to be _transfixed_ , awed with a glimpse of this rattling symphony, the Rorschach convolutions that gather without formula, without absolutes, without preconceptions.

Thick.

Soft.

It coheres into expressionist portraiture.

I am there.

And you are there.

The past and the future.

A bell-ringer would be a lovely coda to the morning, wouldn't it? But it is rejected; it is denied. Rage boils more surely than the water.


	3. Ordnen

Humanity in its artifice betrays the night's promise. It has been seen. Once or twice. Tasted in nature's sheltering grace, the darkness more than merely _darkness_. It is not a chronological phenomenon, but something that melts almost into the noumenon, defying the prosaic senses and eclipsing the menial gradations in the hands' slow wipe along the clock's face.

It is a delirium, to sprawl out not in the alley's gloom and not in the apartment's measured controlled dark but tucked into reality unbroken with our technology's figments, to be sheltered from the city's sulfurous mists that curtain even the land in its great poisoned body for miles upon miles upon miles from its huge metastatic bulk.

It is in this place that _authentic_ night is known. It is to see absolutely nothing of your own fingers; it is to know nothing of your body. It is to vanish; it is for the flesh to melt away into the groping crude oil haze. It is to taste _oblivion_. And with eyes levitating away from the meat, and the bone, for the blood to be unfelt even while the sweat steeps thick and syrupy over your non-flesh, it is an act of pantomime in astral projection.

You are here. And you are not. It is your _awareness_ heaved beyond the flesh's shackling boundaries.

The stars are a broken diamond necklace littered across black velvet. They more than _glint_ ; they are more than the meaningless formless mist that confront the eyes if they can even _aspire_ to stare through the city's hell-horror oblivion. There is a cruelty in all of this.

We aspire to an ideal named _comfort_.

But we are afraid. We will rhapsodize rural simplicity, because being is numbness. Thought is little more than gradations in facile amnesia. We will huddle in our cloistered apartments, peering at the lock with a thick sour terror in the gut when the drunk bleary salaryman or the disoriented housewife _gropes_ once, and again, and again at the latch.

And there will be relief.

Humanity is fear's guise.

We will sanctify the distant and the unknown, because its virtue is painted in gradations of our most exalted quality. It is _potential_. It is the reason the politicians and the whatever-thumpers rhapsodize our unborn, and cast away the life when it is finally flesh and not only an abstraction. Because there is, in the moments before its form is finally _tasted_ , the possibility that mere amorphous shadow could be anything.

It could be a whale.

It could be a tank.

It could be another universe _tumbling_ into this one. But these are ultimately meaningless; they are bound to imagination alone, in this ideal called _could_. It could be anything. Anything _can_ be anything. But it will not be.

There is a fantasy. Eyes open not on the familiar ceiling; not onto a ceiling at all. It is to be elsewhere. There is no longer a _this_. It is not self-extinction. It is to taste an age untarnished with humanity. It is for fingers outstretched to whisper upon the grass' blades sibilant with a wind rising only in accordance with nature's whims.

There is no time. There is not the alarm's sharp bleat. All simply _exists_. Figments in order have been abandoned. The hastening entropy has slowed, or perhaps stilled, or perhaps it does not matter at all, because Maxwell's absolutes are perhaps known, or perhaps not, but it is with the certainty that only Schrödinger's Cat can ever really taste.

It is all a fiction. Everything is finally known for this.

It is not to be amongst men, but only women. There is perhaps a fantastical and sentimentalist quality in this, but there are no scowling quintessential _masculine_ preconceptions to besmirch this. There is an Edenesque bliss in this.

It is to know solitude when it is craved.

It is to know the fingers' slow sensual caress when it is desired.

The legs long and graceful and twisted together. The water purified and the skies a clarified sublime and the animals frolic with an ebullience undenuded in the Y chromosome's collective idiot compulsion to validate itself by riddling Bambie with bullets.

There is death, yes. There is also a deeper perfection in life. It is not a mirthless cheerless march into the stygian abyss' cold sheltering relief, clamoring for nihil's inverted comfort. Only to know that we no longer _are_.

This has been banished. Her fingers lace with mine. There is not wealth, and there is not poverty.

Pink is a hue, and not an ideology.

Shitty superhero films have been effaced from the planet. Shōnen manga, also.

I will kiss her.

But it is not this place.

The city _sprawls_. It is not with eyes opening but only the fantasy, oh, _slipped_ away, Ino's veil brushed from my eyes, because I must now heave myself without delirium, without ideal's shelter, into humanity's great churn. It is not the cruelty named public transportation, the indignity and the indignation, also, in bodies heaved together in their multitudes, but the taxi.

It is quiet.

It is slow. It is some modest whisper of comfort offered with the cash as currency for your sanity. It is a worthwhile transaction, because there is no more sanity to be given to this place. There is a will, a craving, for the grass' soft treacly kiss, but this cannot be. The taxi driver is not drunk, but there is a transparent _wish_ to be.

It is our collective cultural clamoring. This _need_ no longer to see, to feel, to understand. Sobriety is punishment. It is our atonement for our mere potential in bliss; it is our act of contrition for the heart's lust. It is not even to succumb to realism, but only _another_ fantasy, this one wrought not in the mind's lavish gardens in twisting shadow and strange protean figures that will never quite cohere into life's firmness but the consensus, the, ah, ah, what a delectable bit of academic babble, the _gestalt_ named society.

Culture.

Civilization.

Sobriety is our personal blood sacrifice. It is our willingness to genuflect before materialism's divinities, its great pantheon in priggish bourgeois compunction.

It is to banish the Maenads from the temple.

We are no longer dancing-mad with drink, with fervor, with veneration for the Old Gods. No. No. It is our new divinities, as surely plastic and banal as the words better-living-through-chemistry can convey. They have ordered us to march orderly and uncomplaining through the DDT, and we shall.

We will samba if commanded in the gas chambers in our daily commute, also.

We will _obey_. This is the new faith, same as the old faith. But the old faith had better music; had more alluring dances; had _magic_.

This is to cast away these glorious things, these motes and morsels of mysticism and mythology, and instead to gorge ourselves upon the dour shackling absolutes in good-for-you faux-wholesome bits of _realism_.

But there is no realism at all in this. It is what the Consensus, the _gestalt_ , has anointed as reality. It is not even to close your eyes and comply.

You have no eyes.

You will not need them.

The camera is your eye.

The television is your eye.

The theater projector is your eye.

You have no need for ears, either.

We have decided what you will hear, and you will love it. You will pronounce it the most glorious melody that the senses have ever tasted, even when it is nothing but meaningless lurruping rhythm or squalling nonsense, the android's or the gynoid's great terrible mechanical symphony.

The Hyde Suites are another heap that aspires to elegance, but it is a child's sense of this. There are the fundamental geometries, perhaps, in this act of impersonation, but it is our groping befuddled culture's essence. There is _imitation_.

There is a primate zeal for this, perhaps even wedded with an almost celestial talent for _perfection_ , to mature the qualitative into something that will and _must_ awe. We have, after all, warped the humble television into vast effulgent eyes that now tyrannize the senses at great twisting arcs that can devour a wall.

We have nurtured the humble Ford into the glorious Honda.

We have never invented anything.

And this is not an act of invention, but of impersonation. The eyes stare out in their flat bland sallow rectangles, every one a room, every one announcing a narrative alike in everything but the words. The scope, the geometry, the course, they can be felt, they can be _predicted_ , in an instant. They must not be begrudged this, of course.

The certainty is in the wealth that fuels these things. The humblest room is ten thousand yen for an evening. It is not a love hotel in its lavish lathering extemporaneous lust. It is an orderly thing; one will arrange all perfectly in accordance with trend and tradition. The clothing will be tucked into its cases; the bellhop in his carnation livery will politely embrace these.

He will be remunerated to the mandated measure with cash slipped over an outstretched palm like a sea snake negotiating a still pond.

We will stalk through this in our intellectual and cultural somnambulism. And I am perhaps a hypocrite, because I will not break this at all. The cash will be eased into my driver's hand; it is a charming Toyota, the hide effulgent black like an insect's chitin.

It will thrum away. There is no luggage; only a satchel thrown over a shoulder. The hotel is something forgettable, because it can be seen anywhere, stained with this aesthetic atrocity called _international_. It is our ambition to live with eyes forever closed. It is genuflection to our collective wish to commit nothing to memory but the most basal necessities.

It is a culture that would rather not know the terror and the equivocation in diversity, so it has been banished. The glass is poised like any other in its panes; the levels are arranged and normalized; even the chiming piano music with sophistication's affectation chirrups through the tastefully camouflaged speakers at the appointed volume. The carpeting is a quality like crushed velvet stained in Hollywood blood underfoot. The staff are polite and blandly pretty and handsome, their uniforms immaculate.

Bows are offered, and not hands shaken. We are, of course, Japanese.

Even the elevator is smeared in my reflection, a great wheeling narcissistic warp, swallowing itself and spitting its own image back up again, and again, and again, a _mise en abyme_ that devolves into Ouroboros' esurient autocannibalism. I am here.

And I am here again.

An outstretched palm meets only itself, and there is a wish for there to be _another_ here. Not another Mistress Orchid. Not even another Ran. Only another _this_. Only another _I_ ; for us not even to be We, but I and I. And I and I will be joined by I and I and we will tumble through exponential burgeoning explosion until there are millions and these millions are multiplied by millions.

And it will still only be a great colony creature in these uncountable limbs and hungers named _I_.

I will introduce myselves.

We will be I.

There will be a kiss that will shake the planet's foundations.

The San Andreas fault will wilt and yield and San Francisco will coast off into the ocean like a calving glacier.

The Pacific will break.

I will kiss again.

Fingers will find purchase in hair; lips will fall together; tongues will slither and stroke and they will scribe great stripes over fine delicate toes and long shapely legs and they will collectively rear up, and up, and up.

Some of I will perhaps be lost in this.

We will make omurice from the broken eggs.

And I and I vanish in an instant, my collective annihilation announced in the familiar _international_ chime. It is a _ding_. Ding-ding-ding. Nothing has been won but a glimpse of the eighth floor. The corridor is like any other corridor.

The warmth spilling in a fictive bronze from the sconces that aspire to a politically correct decadence, nestled in the heavy hardwood walls that are not hard and are not wood and are probably not meaningfully heavy. They are a figment, a patina. They are a synthetic reality; our senses are synthetic, also, aren't they?

When nothing but a plasticine counterfeit is known, is there anything _like_ reality?

There are others in the hall; their eyes refuse to admit me, and I will stare at them and know absolutely nothing but their simple sameness. It is not the form, and not the hue, and not the geometry. It is the soul. The weary numb quality in the travelers. In the wives whose fingers anxiously fondle the rings fastened around slender or fat fingers.

The husbands whose fingers are seamed with a creamy smear that announces their infidelity in will, if not in practice.

We not only dance but wheel and reel and twist and pirouette around this great warp in obligation, in responsibility's scowling eye staring up up up into our souls. There is an ambition to ignorance, to warding it away, but it is a hopeless thing. Denial is still admission.

Eight-thirty-nine is 'Adam's face. There is only Hawa's promise here; she, whom you call Eve. She, who is woman. She, who is nothing but a straw perfection, an abstract absolute. She, who is our hatred's repository.

She, whom we cannot escape.

She, whose shadow stains Shinto and Buddhism and every other _ism_ , also. The atheisms, also, in their scowling trendy misogyny.

She, who is desire's guise.

She, who is lust's moral veil.

She, who is captured in the mirror when the eyes flit to the sharp cold silver stare.

She, who is self-hatred.

She, who is I.

Palms clasped on the door. There's a moment's simple _strangeness_. It is a quirk, a twist, a strange convolution like knowing a burl bloating through reality's grain. A sudden _compulsion_ not even to turn but just to heave yourself to the floor, to beat your chest with a frenzy, a thrashing spine-arching madness, less a dance and more the very _ambition_ to dance given form, a manic and bone-breaking primordial inkling _prefiguring_ the act of dancing.

To scream.

More than anything, for fuck's sake, it's to _scream_.

It's a primal howl that knows nothing of time, nor does it care, nor can it even aspire to care.

But there is a key already tucked in my hand.

Look at that. I guess the howl has been suspended. Slipped into the slot that we call security, because we clearly cannot seek this in another's eyes, and another's hand, and another's lips. There is a sharp _click_ , because this is such a thing's form. The door slipped open.

A suite.

Ah, ah, it is _luxury_ , you understand. It's meaningless exactly _what_ sort of luxury this is. It's announced in the ten thousand yen sapped out of your account. Or someone's, anyway. More twenty thousand for this room, and it is the new sense of traditional, the Ikea minimalism in its scowling facets and its brutal cold angles and its chromium inelegances that we will anoint with the sainted ideal in _popular_.

All of this is very popular.

And all of this is very _white_. The sofa and the carpeting like an ash-haired Marine's flattop and the love seat and the chairs and the walls and the ceiling, also. The walls peer at me in cream; it is a rarefied oasis from the absolute sodden steeping monochrome, a sense that this tiny trivial gradation may perhaps be salvation from the retina-bleaching chromatic psychosis.

The city is not black; it is _never_ black. It cannot aspire to darkness. It has been denied this place, this tranquility. Busyness is its faith; business is its mantra, its fanaticism. At every instant, cash is generated.

A lust, a need, a _craving_ for this most menial thing. It is a need to fuel excess that exists as nothing but an affront to Thorstein Veblen's memory.

A television leers at me.

A television.

In a suite.

There is still the familiar idiot figure peering at me. An invitation to the eyes, to the flesh's torpor. To the mind's abdication. Thoughts vanish in its mindless stare.

It is a conduit to our every morsel of the prepackaged. We live past-tense lives cradled in its cold numbing light. But this is meaningless. The cabinet doors _hammered_ closed over that grotesque stare, that abhorrent glimpse of our modern altar. It is our faith, our religion.

Every _moment_ is a communion with this thing. Fingers pluck at the tee-shirt enameled on my chest with sweat. The balcony whispers the metropolis' non-wisdoms in its crazed babel, in the voices in their millions, however subdued, still converging into a great crashing wave.

The ears are tortured; the senses are tormented and brutalized with the city's simple bulk. It's meaningless to protest, to resist. The air-conditioner is leavened in the swelter that spills through the portal opened to liberation that would be found only down, down, down. It wouldn't be polite, would it?

To anyone.

The tee-shirt peeled away.

The jeans, also. The hands that tyrannize us more surely than any man or woman whisper their wisdom to me at a glance. There is no urgency.

Seven-forty in the evening. There is no subjectivity in this. There is also no meaning. Bare feet whisper and shiver over the carpeting that refuses obdurately to be tatami. It would be lovely to savor the strange rasping texture on the fine soles caressed endlessly with vanity's ministrations. They are perfect.

It is fetishism. For the legs; for the toes; for the soles. Even the ankles perfected. Flesh kneaded with the lotions that promise alchemical relief from time's dreaded cruelties. They are ineluctable, and we would rather believe otherwise, so it is. It is to know the toes' balletic twist. Not _en pointe_ , but only with a pitching lunging grace that belies its senselessness. It knows no direction.

There is no choreography. There is not even music but for the soul's stereo's serenade. And I am still here, and _it_ is still here. To bounce and wheel and twist and pirouette. To feel the momentum capture the flesh, the heavy tits and the ass' generous overripe peach bulk, like a hurricane _clutching_ a marshmallow pennant.

I am become confectionery.

I am dessert.

It is onanistic fervor. You are now simply sprawled across the sofa, body in its demented lunging contortions, and fingers jab and prod and stroke and caress and _pull_. They will twist and jerk and it is not only lips splayed apart, because this is something elementary. It is to be inverted; it is the spine's tortured yowling strain while bonelessness is implored, peering up at the thickly cropped hair, the very very _fine_ heap of heavy curls nestled over the lips straining open, yawning dark a meager increment deeper than the skin's complexion.

It is a perfected pallor; it is an act of self-abnegation, depriving yourself of the sun's caress for _this_. For this bleached-alabaster allure. It is not for them; it is not for me. It simply _is_. It is the essence in not bothering to trim your nails.

 _Because_.

No need for a reason.

While gravity torments and tugs and _twangs_ at every muscle's fiber rearing up now into a manic relief; while you are conscious that the fat is little more than camouflage for a strength that hasn't receded, but is only _discreeter_ now. Tongue lolling out and the only purchase is on the tits like gelatin poured into sleek tight latex; lap and stroke and it isn't isn't _isn't_ fair.

So so close.

So close.

Reality twists.

Just _foreshorten_ it a bit; just a bit. A few tiny _millimeters_ and suddenly, suddenly, your pussy can be clamped against your lips your thighs and knees fastened around your cheeks and it would be delicious. Oh so delicious. To eat and eat and eat.

To become Ouroboros with the fullest authenticity. Snarl and snap and it's a _bite_ ; algolagnia is not alone reserved for another's pain. Drink the masturbatory duality in it. In injuring and being injured at once. To taste the knife's serrated rake over every fucking nerve, gnawing and gnashing at the nipples thick and peachy and dazzling in their sensitivity.

The universe _breaks_.

At once, in an instant, with that anguish-lubricated delirium, because there is no gentleness with the self, no, no, no. It is the impulse, perhaps, that finds the glass shimmering in its cold faceted break or the razor's cool luster clasped in the fingers, dragged down over the flesh that is to be taken raw.

Not blued.

Not rare.

Tartare.

Lap and slaver and stroke and pull and finally, finally, there is the _bite_ ; it's not quite blood drawn, and this is the point. It is aesthetic; it is cosmetic.

It is a tremor; it's fingers laced around your knees and groping and clutching and pulling and now, now, one has begun to migrate, has been _possessed_ with a spirit that is not merely felt but seen, also, in its wicked stalk, its merciless and implacable predation.

It is not merely the mind's pornographer; it is to know something absolutely _tangible_ , summoned into being with will alone. The fingers' first quick jab is without delicacy; and the second, and third, and it is endless now, relentless. Because it is yours; because it is not.

There is a scream; a muffled strangled warble rearing up from the throat, spilling thrumming through hot skin. There is an awareness of fingers; yours, another's, it doesn't even matter. Pitching, plunging, _plumbing_ that place, and two become three, and three become four. The legs shudder; blood puddles beyond the biologic ideal.

I am _drowning_ in flesh, and desire, and there is only a will for more.

Electrocution. I am being _electrocuted_ with its enormity, huge slashing sloppy straining gouts spurting up and falling down down down and your body's own texture is something that must be savored in this bleary addled thrall, drunk on blood and without the vampire's baroque, with voice silenced in your body's own heat.

Kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

Lap and stroke and stripe and it's something _incredible_ , knowing the convolutions, the gradations, the ridges and undulations and the furrows, also. A stab, quick, again and again and again, a merciless _stroke_ at the faintly spongy flesh that is a man's in effigy, as a man's is a woman's. Strain and shiver and...

And it _comes_.

Unbidden; heedless; _insane_. A madness, a snapping straining convulsion. It has been sought, and now it is found, and it is merciless.

A wish for the head to be flung back meets only impotent heaves against the cushion.

Need it.

More.

More.

Fuck me.

Yes. A plea for another _I_ to be there. Not only with fingers but something more delicious still. Not in mechanical pantomime but in the biological. Not the metabolic disease that _heaves_ those lusts, those images, through the mind's great galleries but a woman so bestowed.

I want it.

"F-fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Pound me. _Hammer_ me; slap me; beat me." Twist and tug and tear and the words are candid and whispered to absolutely no one but _her_ , because there is no one to hear, to listen, to understand.

Lap and kiss and...

And her weight should be there.

The lush thighs and round hips and her simple violence. It should crush down, down, should _pound_ knees against my chest and should not be delicate, should not be gentle, should not be a smooth regular indulgence because it shouldn't be for me at _all_.

It should be hers.

And mine, also.

It should be hips wet with me slapped together; it should be huge ragged irregular breaths drawn _sucked_ deep, stained with tears, with a palm clamped on my lips with snarling graveling commands for silence, you slut, unless you _really_ want it rough.

You don't fucking know what rough _is_.

It should be her palms' endless merciless crack-crack-crack on my ass.

It should be _impalement_.

And it...

It is a chime; a chirrup from the watch whose hands are life's relentless temporal tyranny. It is to slip away from this place where the tears boil up in delectable play-pretend futility and to rejoin reality. Clothing is society's truth.

It is esteem.

Hierarchy.

It will not be latex this evening. Something _professional_ ; sharp in its angular grace. It is the neophyte attorney in the nylon-draped pencil-skirted psychosis. It is a blouse shimmering with a luster that whispers of oil effulgent on satin in silver; it is a tight black skirt and jacket. It is stockings eased up, up, up, tethered to the garters that bite into soft skin.

Heels that could spit-roast a suckling pig.

And the makeup is already arch; is already esteem in graceful airbrushed allure. It is a sleek unbroken skein; it is dappling atomized vanity. Lips burgundy in brutal vampiric juxtaposition against the complexion.

The eyes shadowed in a violet-tinged smoke.

A brush swept through the hair once, and twice, and again, and it is with expectation that the door is answered when eight announces itself.

"Good evening." It is something lusciouser than any prosaic room service. It is an invitation not to a polite, delicate, lingering meal, but a brazen feast in flesh torn from the bone and blood sucked down with bread like an evening with Vlad Ţepeş. She is beautiful.

She is _more_ than beautiful.

The eyes cannot mesmerize; they are camouflaged in sunglasses that surpass only _opaque_ in their thickness. But the breasts _heave_ in caramel-dappled abundance. It is something explosive; it is a sense that they may yet slip the flesh's boundaries and greet me as their own novel life. Trembling with every anxious breath.

She does not stand; she _rears_ on high high high heels in sumptuously gaudy indigo, patent leather effulgent like sweat shimmering on bare skin. The legs, shapely in their perfection in roundness' confluence with the sainted angular elegances, glimmer with violet stockings. The seams, as commanded, _bite_ into thighs plump and soft and still oh so firm.

Her belly is lean under the tube top's delectably slutty communion with a skirt that's only an arrest warded off. There is still a plea to shackle the fine slender wrists in silver bracelets.

"Ah, g-good evening, Mistress Orchid. You're so... So beautiful, if- if..." The voice is a quaver, thick from the throat.

It's pathetic, isn't it?

"If _what_?"

"If- if... If _your whore_ ," a rasp, a whisper.

"What was that? Louder, please. I can't hear you over your shame and your guilt, slut." This is not reserved.

This is not with any interest in the few drowsy corporate drones' fragile sensibilities.

Voice _upraised_.

"I- your whore, if- if your whore can be so bold-"

"You may. Kiss me. Come on; come on. Kiss me." It is with a sternness, peering at myself captured in the cyberpunk chromium lenses. "Kiss me, slut."

"Yes." It is something oh so graceful, less a lean and more simply an act of drift that's less glacial and more an ice cube skittering across an oil-slathered stone floor. Her lips _hunger_ ; there is a candor in this that no pathetic artifice could camouflage. The lips pour together.

Mine.

Hers.

Soft.

Soft.

 _Soft_.

Hers _brilliant_ with an enchantingly cheap crust in lilac; lips fall open; tongues slip together. And her long lissome fingers are brazen, aren't they?

Settling on my shoulders.

A palm upraised; it's not violence's fullest immensity but only a quick _crack_ at her cheek. Incredulity flourishes in quivering lips.

"W-why'd you-"

"I never told you you could _touch_ Mistress Orchid, did I, whore? Did you hear those words from my mouth? No. No. Oh, I think I _should_ call you Yukiko, shouldn't I?" Admiring the fine planes; the delicious geometries; the slender jaw; the round lush cheeks. "You don't look _anything_ like middle-aged, you know?

"Come in, Yuki- _tan_." Yes, yes, _this_ is a perfection. Even the hair has been...

Been _graced_ with something ineffably _cheap_ in its studied commonness.

Heavy, thick, _black_. Something oh so exotic, spilling over the shoulders, cradling the fine arching spine.

There's an irrepressible _implacable_ craving; it is a hand outstretched, fingers splaying out over the tight lean belly.

It's to pluck at the taut elastic fabric in amethyst like dying winter sunlight.

"You're so beautiful, you know, Yuki- _tan_. You can take your sunglasses off now. Have you brought your _real_ glasses?" Turning now, quick on heels whose rap is muffled on the carpeting. "And don't even _imagine_ taking off your shoes.

"A woman's even lovelier in her heels, isn't she?"

"Ah, yes. It's... May- may, um, what... What should your whore call herself-"

"Yuki- _tan_." Decisive and absolute. "Would you like a drink? This isn't some cruel or ridiculous trick question. I'm not wicked at _every_ instant. Only when it's appropriate. Oh, ah, and are you ready to pay?

"I'm not a whore. I'll say that now. I'm not a whore. But a dominatrix _does_ charge a fee." Peering at the bar that's been assembled with predictable minimalism on what could be called a credenza only if Waterford would blow them.

Chiming on the sharply faceted crystal; the flat face peers up at me in a translucent reflection like admiring yourself in a stagnant pond.

"Sake? Whiskey? Vodka?"

"Ah, um... I- I think, that is..."

"It's fine if you say _I_ right now. I, ah, I think maybe I was a _little_ brutal with you." Turning, oh so slowly, patiently; a glance cast with those exalted words _come-hither_ over a shoulder.

Framing her in the hair's lavish lacquered fall.

"In my defense, I'm a brutal girl. _I_ is fine; for the moment. I know you're probably not very accustomed to this sort of relationship, are you?"

"Um, ah..." Swallowing; it's something tormented, a labored _convulsion_ in the throat, dragging down a glacier of spittle down down down into the belly. "Not- not _exactly_ -"

"How old are you, well... Do you mind telling me your name?"

"Ah, well, it's a little... Complicated." How imperfect our language is; how imprecise this verbiage is.

"Complicated?"

"Um- I'd, uh, I... I think... Do you mind if I have a seat? Just- just _coming_ here almost drove me insane."

"Did you take the bus, like I'd ordered you?"

"I don't know why I did. It's- it's not like you would've known, right?" The lips are more eloquent than the voice, heavy and husky and thick. There's a flinty allure in it; a depth that's more than only _familiar_.

It's strange.

It's surreal.

It is that sainted faith named cognitive dissonance. We cannot believe what we are seeing, what we are hearing.

It Cannot Be True.

So it is not.

It _is_ coincidence.

"Wouldn't I? I'm _here_ , you know. Already." A fingernail outstretched like a dagger at her brow. "I know how that sounds. Conceited. Delusional. How could I _possibly_ be there? But did you feel just...

"Just one tiny _superstitious_ twinge?"

"Yes." There is not a _hunch_ in her posture.

It is poise.

Grace.

The supermodel sublimity in an untroubled elegance so exactingly studied that it no longer lies in the conscious mind. It is simply compulsion.

"I- I did. I felt it. I had that... It's, well, it's how guilty I feel about..." Silence. Again. The words straining up, up, up like a gelatin explosion, gnashed and gnawed and bitten back and it is still an ordeal to swallow down this compulsion.

"About what?"

"It's just... Everything, I guess. I- I mean, I don't want it sound like I'm some kind of religious nut or anything, but... But I guess I think about god. About god judging me."

"You're a Christian?"

"W-well, I mean, not exactly. I'm... Something? Kind of a monotheist, I guess. Um, ah, why?"

"Curiosity. I won't force you to fuck a crucifix unless that's something you've always been _ashamed_ of fantasizing about." Peer down, down, down.

The universe is a warp that simply _swallows_ the senses.

"I- I, ah... I don't really, y'know, practice any religion. I just- I think about god. When I masturbate. When- when I watch porno-"

"You like porno?"

"Not _exactly_." Fingers laced together on her lap; so so _so_ deliciously near in their manicured grace to the delta wrought in the thighs' sleek soft confluence with the skirt's slutty lycra hem.

"What do you mean? Tell me."

"I- I don't _want_ to watch it."

"Someone forces you?"

"I can't help it." The eyes can be _felt_ in their urgent huge _snap_ open. "It's just- I mean... It's... I can't _control_ myself. My hands'll just- they'll move by themselves. I'll be on the internet, and- and I won't _want_ to do it.

"I just... I don't really _like_ the idea of how degrading it is. To women or men. But I just- I love..." Lips pursed and shuddering.

"Love what?"

"I love beautiful women. I-"

"Is this liberating for you?" Knelt without menace, without violence.

"Kind of?" The lips entrance in their sticky _snap_ together. "It's just..."

"What do you watch? I _imagine_ it's not just bikini models cavorting around."

"I've _tried_ that! I- I'll tell myself, Okay, you can watch, but just only the- the _bikini_ girls. The beautiful lingerie models who don't even... Even show _anything_ more than just a little skin. But they're all on the same sites!" It's a plangent bellowing plea.

It's fingers knotting on her lap.

It's a wisdom, a fundamental intuition pluming up through the flesh, shuddering like a tsunami, that they're a half-second from ripping at her breasts.

It's recrimination against the cynical bastards who organize web pages.

It's a roar against the body.

"So, what is it that you watch?"

"It's... It's hard stuff-"

"What is _hard_? Slapping you? Is that hard-"

"Harder?" What delectable _heat_ that is; the bronze becomes a sunset blaze in the cheeks.

"It's just-"

"Tell me." Fingers settle on hers; _lace_ around hers. Pull them closer, closer, closer. "Tell me."

"You- you look... Look older than your age, you know, M-Mistress Orchid-"

"Call me Orchid right now."

"'kay." And that sigh is _immeasurably_ younger than hers.

"How do you know my age?"

"I just- you said you were in your twenties. You- you _seem_ more adult."

"I had to grow up quickly. Disappointment, you know. Shitty parents." There is a hard edge in this.

It is an absolutism that is unmerited.

It is still true.

"A bad boyfriend. Miserable high school years, you know. The usual."

"A-ah, I... I see. Um..."

"Tell me, all right?" The voice is soft, velveteen on the ears.

"You're being so nice to me now."

"Of course. Because I want to know _you_. I was being _consciously_ unfair to you before. Why would I want a client who can't cope with being tyrannized, with being degraded? That's what this is, you know.

"I'll be your _Mistress_. It won't be at your discretion; it will be at _mine_. If I order you to humiliate yourself, then you'll do it. There are _no_ boundaries with this. If I order you to kneel down and start sucking off some _very_ lucky salaryman on the train, then you will.

"But I wouldn't really bother with that. Honestly, there's an _artistry_ in your beauty. It would be like smearing shit on a Rembrandt."

"T-then... I mean... I guess- I guess I didn't understand it very well, m-maybe. It's not just when I'm with you-"

"In private, you mean? It _could_ be. I thought you wanted the full experience."

"I've never done this before. P-paid for it like this, I mean. I-"

"Do you feel guilty because you think I'm a whore?" Is that the word? "No one's ever paid me to _fuck_. Never. Ever. _Ever_. I would never do that. It ruins sex's very _essence_. You're paying me because you can't find someone to do _this_ without it.

"That's the only reason. It's like finding someone to paint a portrait for you; it's like finding someone to build a home for you. If you don't have the friends with that native talent, then you _find_ them. You spoke to Ayumi?"

"Yes. Yes. She's..."

"Did you fuck her?"

"Yes." It's heavy, tortured. Her chest heaves with a _delicious_ tremor and throb with every breath now, dragged down with a spasmodic _mania_.

"I would've been _awed_ if I'd heard _no_ from you."

"She's- she's so young-"

"She is. She's a nymphomaniac; but not quite. It's... Well, why bother with the psychology? She's an addict. The _best_ sort; the one for whom it's not just a new normality. Do you use?"

"Uh, what?"

"Do you use? Aitch? Coke? Shabu? Tell me."

"S-sometimes, um... W-when I was... Awhile ago, I used shabu to stay awake. But that was awhile ago-"

"What a _square_. Grass?"

"I'd like some sake, I- I think." How adorable the plea is.

"Sure. I can _see_ your heartbeat, you know, Yuki- _tan_." Admiring the pulsation hammering through her throat in its fine nimble convulsions. "You look like you're about to faint."

"I'm so nervous. I'm- I'm so nervous-"

"You _do_ fuck girls, don't you?"

"Y-yes."

"Do you feel guilty about it?"

"What?" Staring up at me while the glasses chime in their elegant ethanol theater; the sake's opened with a deft flourish, faintly briny juices dribbling down down down into the fine crystal goblet.

"Do you feel guilty about it?"

"About what?"

"Fucking girls? Fucking boys? You said you have a husband, right? Do you feel guilty about that infidelity?"

"I wouldn't call it infidelity when he hasn't been faithful to _me_ for a full year in our _very_ long marriage." It's something almost unreal.

 _Mom's_ hard-edged animus.

No longer even resignation's simple despair.

It's _hate_. Cold clarified hate. The infernal rage has not cooled but only condensed its own fuel into a perfected diamond whose facets could be used for a tracheotomy.

"Really? It sounds like my dad. He cheated on my mom on their honeymoon."

"A-ah..."

"He's a handsome guy. My mother's gorgeous. Both of them were destined to _lust_ for one another. They were such a disaster. And I _still_ spent years trying to urge them back together. It's delusion, you know.

"The incapacity to see what's _right_ before your eyes. Trying to order the universe in your own ideals' image and learning that... Well, I won't bore you with the _kybernetik_ -"

"You speak German?"

"Yes. I do."

"Ah... It's okay. Really. Um..." Grateful fingers clutch the glass; the syrupy waters still tremble with the wrists' shiver.

"Tell me about the porno you love, Yuki- _tan_. You don't mind if I'm that informal, do you?"

"N-no. I like it." Vanity, thy name is...

Everyone.

Sipping the sake.

"It's- it's good?... Sake? I mean, all sake's pretty much alike, right, Orchid- _san_ -"

"Just _Orchid_. I've already heard you stir your cum-dripping pussy on the phone. Don't stand on ceremony when I'm not being your Mistress." There's still an incredulity, isn't there? The simple _comfort_ with this. "Is there _more_ inside you now?"

"S-so much."

"You met your lover today?"

"T-they were so excited, um..." It's a tremor in the voice like the Kobe Earthquake.

"Yes?"

"T-they said they wanted t-to turn me into, um, into... Into a human cream pie."

"Listen to _that_. Did they?"

"T-they came inside me three times-"

"Well, that's not the most amazing. It drags out most of it-"

"N-no. No. They- they came deep in me the first time, and..." Lust roars with its own implacable momentum. "And then they just- they made me stroke them when they were _right_ between the- the lips. Just a little in me."

"Sounds like filling an éclair. That's just _delicious_. Tell me about the porn you love."

"F-fucking." How _helpful_.

"That's porno."

"It's just-"

"Tell me. Now." There can be no refusal, can there?

"Rough. Um... G-gangbangs. With- with a lot of men, or... Or girls with- with dildos on one woman. Filled with cum. When- when they all cum on a woman's face, too. A-all of them. When it looks..." Jaw shuddering. "I feel so embarrassed-"

"Tell me."

"When she pretends she _hates_ it. When girls cry. And- and then when they get so excited they can't help themselves." The words are no simple confession.

 _Bleated_ out.

"I- I've never told anybody that!"

"Hah. Well, then you can do anything, can't you? Stand up, all right?" There is obedience. The sake's still tossed back like water, the glass a heavy _chunk_ on the glass coffee table poised in its low shin-bruising hump between the love seat and sofa like a surfacing whale.

 _Drag_ her closer.

And closer.

The kiss _roils_.

Stabs between my thighs.

A knee nudged between _hers_.

The fabric is conceived to be twisted, jerked, pulled, teased, dragged away for the most fleeting most dazzlingly _transient_ second before it's slipped up again around those delicious plump tits.

There is no bra.

There is no glint of play-pretend modesty.

I am _deeply_ in lust.

"Dance for me, Yuki- _tan_. Can you dance?"

"Yes." With only incredulity announcing itself across her face. "I- why-"

"'cause I love to watch beautiful women dance. Not only when the ones with _very_ nice bodies shake and quiver and jiggle around." Settling back on the sofa with a lassitude that should be a capital offense in Amish country. "Not that _that_ troubles me. But I love women with beautiful legs.

" _Achingly_ elegant dancers. Have you ever been to a strip club?"

"O-once. My... My lover made me go with them. I hated it. They hated it, too."

"Why did you, then?"

"Because they made me. Because, um, the- one of the dancers is a client, and... My lover's client, I mean, and... And they said they wanted to watch her dance, and, ah... They- they're..."

"It sounds as if you already _have_ a master or a mistress-"

"Not like you. Not- not like you. They just- they love to tease me. But that's all. It's just-"

"I would've forced you to dance on stage with the other girls. They're sleazy disgusting shitholes. I loathe them. I'd bomb them, you know." Why not speak in the hypothetical?

Why not gorge yourself on the delicious figments in this sacral purity?

Why not whisper mendacities that will paint your skin alabaster over the muddling black soot and blood?

"I'd set them ablaze. I'd drag a knife through the proprietors' throats. But there's something ineffably _delicious_ in the idea, the _ideal_ , of degrading you like that. To see your face _rictus_ with shame; to just melt down with it. To know that there are eyes adoring you, lips _slavering_ over you.

"That there are men and women with their pants open and skirts hiked up jerking themselves. Mmm... Maybe I'd force you into a fuck-show, too." There is a _strain_ in the thighs, trembling now. But there is also a slow achingly elegant sway. "And you're already dancing for me, aren't you?"

Yes.

This is the answer.

Writhing with arms folded now slowly, gracefully, over her chest's vast luscious bulk; dimpling the tits, with fingers pricking at her bare shoulders. Falling down, down, down, with a _patience_ that announces cast-iron quadriceps; the calves flare into succulent relief through the stockings' gauzy fabric.

She will slip down, down, down, and rise again.

She is smoke animate as flesh.

She is a djinniyya given delectable guise with her own sublime power. It is delirious, admiring the hips' pivot, the shoulders' roll, the muscle and meat and fat and _femininity_ in their sculpted statuesque perfection.

She is sublime.

A breath _sucked_ down, perfumed with her sweat in its crisp allure.

I am enchanted.

"I'd love to watch it. The men and women _cramming_ the stage, begging for your mouth, forcing you down on your knees. Wouldn't it be lovely? Gangbangs; that's what you love, right? Women's pussies sopping _dripping_ ground on your face; men's cocks twisting through your hair.

"Your mouth for _all_ of them; and then your hands."

"O-oh, oh, _oh_." Breathless. Trembling. A _stagger_ on those vertiginous heels like a stunned cow.

"You love it, don't you?"

"I'm so hot. I'm so hot." It's a delicious whimper, flaring volcanic from the lips. "I feel so hot-"

"You'd want them to _rape_ you, wouldn't you? Men and women alike; not for one another. Only to be tossed between them. Men spearing into your nasty dripping pussy. Your ass. Maybe two or three in each-"

"D-dammit-"

"And you'd be filled, of course. But why not let the others just... _Paint_ your face, those huge fucking _udders_. That's what they're there for, isn't it? Those tits aren't _utilitarian_ things. They're like a figurehead on a ship's prow.

"They're to be admired. They're an object of lust, ambition-"

"I'm..." A cryptic senseless little gasp.

The jaw clenching _taut_.

"You'd love that, wouldn't you? Taking two men in your pussy. Feel their cum just _spray_ through you while another pulls at your hair, drags you closer; jams a cock down your throat. While your fingers are used as surrogate cunts for those too damn _impatient_ to wait.

"Maybe your feet, too. And then the women, of course. Ground on you; they'd _rip_ open your mouth. Your jaw wouldn't only ache. Your lips would be bruised with their kisses. Your tongue would be _numb_ with pussy.

"But they wouldn't stop, I think, 'til they were just _wilting_. The men would be finished much, _much_ sooner. And how could they not want a taste of _your_ slutty holes-"

"Aaah!" A squeal.

A screech.

Not stillness; no, no.

It's a standing wave, shuddering and trembling and there's a _crack_ with a damp hand slapped against the wall, the dance not only interrupted but _broken_ with a knee-melting convulsion.

"Did-"

"I _came_! I- I fucking _came_ from that; I didn't even close my eyes, and they were _there_. And- and it wasn't just getting off from that. I was thinking about you _watching_ me, O-Orchid!" Not quite a wail; not _quite_.

Only one or two crazed trilling decibels from it.

"Well-"

"I want you to see. I- I want you to see my pussy. I want you to see it. There's so much cum in me; I'm _filled_. They- they made me wear a plug; they were so excited about it that they made me wear a pussy plug so- so none'd leak out.

"Look at it. Look at me! I- I wanna do it. I want to be your slave. I want to be your whore. I do. I wannit so much! Degrade me! Use me!" Her lips rubbery, trembling, twisting into wild weird plush geometries.

"Then let's start." There is nothing seismic in this; there is nothing celestial; there is no _violence_. It's the eyes _felt_ in their flare, tumbling open more vastly than the jaws that struggle for the modestest purchase on language's elusive madness-lubricated geometries like an oiled ferret.

"A-ah, ah, now, you... I- I mean, how- how should we do this, um, Orchid-"

"Mistress Orchid now. Unless you've decided you'd rather not." Standing is production, also. Is a flourish so assiduously studied it has been consigned to muscle memory deeper than any dancer's choreography. There is no time; entropy is my rhythm.

"Mistress Orchid." Fingertips clasped together.

It is no trivial anxiety.

It is an overstrung guitar's tension. It is pleading for a Jimi Hendrix psychosis; it is clamoring for a Purple Haze to wreathe us. For fingers to be laced around the neck and _squeezed_ ; for its bulk tortured straining with its own implacable violence to be hammered against the wall.

She is beautiful.

"Take off your sunglasses, Yuki- _tan_. You're just so pretty, aren't you? I'm a little awed with how _beautiful_ you are. Could it really be such an ordeal for you to find someone to abuse you to your satisfaction?" Closer, and closer, and closer.

The heels' slow slow _jab_ into the carpeting muffled in its close-cropped bulk, still oh so thick. Luxuriant.

All is luxury.

"It's... I can't be sure they will-"

"You think, what, that the cash is a guarantee? Are you calling me a whore, Yuki- _tan_?" Closer, and closer still. It is something merciless, ineluctable.

As certain as some harrowing science fiction grotesque's trundling passage over the land, a _War of The Worlds_ nightmare whose scowling eye flares with implacable violence, with certain mortality at a glance.

The flesh _scrawls_ with her.

With the sweat's crisp soft fragrance.

"A-ah, no, no-"

"You said I'm a sure thing, didn't you?" How can there not be the elemental _unfairness_ in tyranny, also?

All reasoning, all semantics, all _reality_ not only shackled but _broken_ but whim's axis.

There is no _truth_ in a dictatorship.

It is only the despot's whim. Isn't it?

You already know the answer.

"It's- it's just, I-"

"I know what you're telling me. You thought it would be an adorable bit of slapping and spanking and a little tickling; a bit of soft tingling sapphism-"

"No! No! I- I really didn't. Ayumi- _chan_ , she- she told me that... That, if- if I wanted someone who could really give me what I want, it would be you. Even if it's giving me _nothing_. Even if it's torturing me-"

"What _is_ it that you want?" And this is something more precious than any other, isn't it? It is to slip your fingers into the soil hot and straining with strange scrawling roots pleading for purchase on the nameless, the unknowable, the inscrutable. Begging and beseeching and imploring.

It is to fasten your hands around them. To _tug_ ; to claim them as your own. To waft to _suck_ the soil's sodden soft fragrance into your nostrils. To paint your universe with its essence.

"A-ah-"

"Take off your sunglasses, Yuki- _tan_. You have your _real_ spectacles, right?"

"I'm afraid-"

"Good." And it is not quite to _dwarf_ her; no, no. There is a comfortable disparity in height. It is less a point of altitude, perhaps, and more only to be _above_ her. Little more than two or three inches, even with the heels' sharp splintering immensity. Fingers laced under the chin; nails like burgundy talons _prick_ into her soft tight skin.

It is perhaps the surgeon's beneficence.

It is also nature's rarefied indulgence.

It is genetic serendipity.

"You _should_ be afraid. Tyranny doesn't emanate from ennobling love and trust and faith and adoration. Haven't you ever read Machiavelli? Power is from _fear_. That's it. When the people love, it's little more than a fitful little affair.

"An adoration that's no truer than a fickle lover's passion. It will _melt_ ; even with the sublimest success, it will still melt away. Because humanity is stupid. Humanity is impatient. Humanity will revolt in its simplemindedness from even Utopian beauty because it's _changeless_. But humans are afraid of change, also.

"They crave _changeless_ progress; theirs is an idiocy that will laud new telephones as something sainted. You're... You _are_ afraid, aren't you?" Fingers now, rearing up, _lacing_ through the hair's heavy black immensity. "Your hair isn't naturally black, is it?

"Like mine."

"It's- it's auburn-"

"How _adorable_. Mine, also. Mmm... My mother's _is_ black; hers is stained russet. Or it was. It's black again. We finally look like mother and daughter again." Closer, and closer, and closer. The heart's every beat is a pummeling timpani section addled with shabu. "And _you_ look so...

"Familiar, you know. I could just _film_ you and blackmail Kudō Yukiko with it. You're gorgeous. Maybe I should just invite some of my friends to fulfill your gangbang fantasies. Would you like that?" A kiss. It's something so so so _slow_ ; a syrupy patient passage over the cheek.

Tasting the cheap makeup.

The dusty powdery crudeness _clamoring_ for abuse.

"You taste so sweet, you know. And your _aroma_. I love that perfume. It's just- it's so _common_. Drugstore perfume. I adore it. What is it?"

"V-vanilla-"

"It's like wading into a _bakery_. Just a _tinge_ of... Oh, you're so _vain_ , aren't you?" With fingers _tugging_ now; a firm purchase.

A jerk.

A _pull_. It is to know obedience's pangs. Lips in lilac straining open, quivering shimmering with their better-living-through-chemistry luster and spittle drooling out with a tongue like a fuchsia carpet.

"You're not _only_ wearing cheap perfume. You've _camouflaged_ that fine _eau de parfum_ -"

"I- I'm sorry-"

"You don't have an _I_ anymore. You've had your sake; you've had your _lovely_ wheeling dance. You _are_ my slut now. You're _wadded_ with your lover's jizz, right? Gallons of it. You're a human cream pie. And you're disobedient. How _pricey_ is your other perfume?"

"I- I-"

" _Yuki-tan_. You're _Yuki-tan_."

"Yuki- _tan_ doesn't know!" Rubbery lips; warbling voice. A delirium, a _delectation_ in this.

"Really? So it's _that_ expensive, huh? What _is_ all of this wealth? This passionless miserable marriage-"

"It's not passionless. J-j-just miserable." Rasping, tormented. "It's just a miserable-"

"Really? So, who's the wealthy one? He must be if you're just _so_ terrified of-"

"N-n-no. Both of us-"

"What a fucking _craven cunt_ you must be, then." A palm upraised; a delectation in knowing those fundamental instincts scrawling through her. The wisdom that she has been painted, even with the coarsest sketches in this delectation.

The _flinch_.

"Oh, look at _that_ , little Yuki- _tan_. I can see _your_ name shouldn't be written with _snow_ , should it? There's definitely not _that_ purity. You've had this before. Your lover _adores_ this, too, huh? But they're not enough, are they?"

"N-n-no-"

"Too kind?"

"Too... Y-Yuki- _tan_ doesn't know."

"How hard do they beat you?"

"Not hard enough!" It's more than candor. It's a sincerity, a _purity_ , in this unvarnished perfection, without prevarication, without a _desire_ for mendacity.

It _is_.

It's a plea. Beseeching and exhorting. It is an invitation to this ideal named _more_.

"Really? Not _nearly_ enough? How hard, then, do they hit you? Like this?" It's a palm opened; it's an _achingly_ delicate graze.

A brush.

A whisper over the cheeks burnished hot ruby, a quality like dying sunset cresting tawny dunes. It is to know the flesh; and it is not the puppy's expectation, the kitten's simple self-satisfaction in this. It is to offer herself as a canvas to artistic brutality.

It is the arm drawn back.

A _crack_ on the flesh.

"Ahn..." Trembling; quivering. Curling toes and sweat-dappled fabric's essence distilled into that _breath_. Her eyes still camouflaged behind the lenses.

"And?"

"S-so soft next to what they do-"

"Then what about _this_?" Another. It's without delicacy, without progression. It's a fucking open-palmed _slug_ ; it's to know the balance yielding a dazed glazed delirium spurting up through the face a tremor racing through every _inch_.

A strangled mewl.

"W-what?" It's the lenses _disturbed_ ; it's the frame not snapped in its arching dimensions but unseated from _one_ eye, an exotic asymmetry.

"Your eyes are blue." Peering at them; a sense of the supremest _awe_. "A Japanese with blue eyes?"

"Y-yours are violet, Mistress Orchid-"

"Never fucking _mind_ about me." It's another blow; and another; and another. It's... It's insanity. Sudden.

Convulsive.

It is not something delicate in its coalescing. It is not a patient inchoate psychosis gathering between the ears and behind the eyes, or maybe it's between the eyes and behind the ears. Who can imagine.

Because it's fury.

Because the eyes are _more_ than familiar.

Cool.

Serene.

 _Smug_.

It's the arm's relentless animation. It's the knowledge that _you_ are as shackled to this will as she; _you_ are as tortured as she, also. A sumptuous algolagnia; a psychedelic Purple Haze settling over every sense, perfumed in vanilla with a _kiss_ of her pricier perfume layered under it like a Pollock painted over a Caravaggio.

Beating her.

Beating her.

Yes. This is the only word. It's to know the wilting knees, the belly churning. The eyes immense while the sunglasses have simply abdicated their purchase on the nose's fine bridge, no longer camouflage for the lovely geometries. The cheeks are more than _hot_ now.

They are tattooed with a blackening negative of my palms.

The palms _roar_.

Left and right; and now, now, it can only be the right, the left hand _laced_ around her throat.

"Is this what you fucking wanted?!" Another, another, another. To know... It isn't only to _taste_ madness. It's a fucking buffet. It's for your will to be _broken_ in its tether on the body; it's to know the marionette's wires not only ruptured, not only breaking, but simply _snapping_.

Kuzma's Mother.

I will show you Kuzma's mother.

73°48′26″N, 54°58′54″E

You will savor it on the tongue.

You will know Her wrath.

Roiling; heaving. It's something wrenched from science fiction, from shōnen manga. It's insanity. I know that it is. It's implacable, irrepressible, _irresistible_ , lubricated with the keens and the shivers and the lips' crazed tortured quivers and the tongue lolling out and wrenched back with the jaws' sharp _crack_ together.

"You fucking _whore_. What gives you the goddamn _right_ to have those faithless eyes?!" A squeeze becomes a clench becomes crushing merciless _violence_ on the neck. "What right do you have to have those fucking eyes?

"Those disgusting _fucking eyes_." Snarling, snapping. It's a blow, and another, and another, and more than heat, something hotter than any trivial _inferno_ , it's coalescing in the flesh. It's fangs brandished; it's _insanity_. Yes. That's the only word, isn't it?

An inkling of peering at yourself from within your own flesh; it's a distance that is not abstraction, and not alienation. It is not even dissociation. It is to know only yourself; but yourself in an unreal duality without binary.

I am here; I am there.

I am I.

I am not at all.

Kiss her now; kiss, and kiss, and kiss. Lips _crushed_ on hers; the fingers sink deeper.

"You're so fucking beautiful. It nauseates me; it's _disgusting_ how gorgeous you are. That- that _cellulose_ perfection. You're just an _idol_ , aren't you? Are you a fucking idol?" And it's the back of a hand, the knuckles iron, _cracked_ on her jaw.

Pain spears up, up, up.

Hers.

Mine.

Eyes infernal.

"I need you. I need you. You're going to give me what _I_ want. Does your pathetic lover beat you like _this_?" There is no answer, because there _can_ be none. Palms _crushed_ on her shoulders; the knees trembling like gelatin lakes captured in the seismic eschatological will and can only surrender.

A _crack_ ; delicious, sumptuous. Long long legs furling _folding_ and the body, also.

"Aren't _I_ beautiful, Yuki- _tan_?"

Sobbing.

Huge tormented racking _convulsions_ from the chest.

"Well? Aren't you going to fucking _answer_ me, you feckless faithless _slut_? You're depraved; you're disgusting. A piece of _shit_ ; that's what you are. Not because you're unfaithful to your useless husband but because you're still _with_ him when your face's painted with that much misery. When you have _nothing_ together; when he doesn't, _couldn't_ hope, to care about the jizz wadding your nasty loose cunt." A heel ground down, down, down into her left knee.

And now the right.

"Does your lover beat you like this?"

"No!" Wailing, humongous.

Plangent.

"No? Why not? Oh, she's not afraid of ruining this lovely face, I would hope. This _delicious_ complexion. You're stained _red_ with my hand; it's almost indigo, even with your complexion, with this cheap streetwalker makeup.

"Cheaper still. It's what I _love_. And you're almost _sobbing_." And it's true. The shoulders shudder; the tears do not _well_ , no, no. It's the essence of an aquifer ruptured with an atomic bomb's huge crunching violences ripping into the earth, dragging up great bubbling gouts.

The cheeks are a delectable canvas for this violence; for the artistry draping them in viscid streaks like smoke condensed into watercolor.

"A-ah, ah-"

"You love it, don't you? Lick me. Lick me. Now. I'm sick of _expecting_ obedience-"

"'kay." There is only compliance. It's to know the simple perfection in a servant that, well, is not even _half-trained_. It is a wretched neophyte; it is a clumsy ineptitude in every stroke, every twist, every quirk, and there's still a delectation in the body's lavish plump elegances.

In the face; in the eyes.

"A-ah, ah, _yes_ , Yuki- _tan_. _That_ is what I'd wanted." While the palms cradle her knees, while the spine arches, tongue lolling out with a relentless ravening lust. "But not _quite_. Do you know what I'd like to hear from you?"

"N-no, Mistress Orchid. Yuki- _tan_ doesn't!" With immense eyes whose tears gather in vast rheumy draperies.

"Yes, you do. You must've been trained a _bit_. You're a masochist; _that_ is obvious. It's... It's such a _polarized_ algolagnia, isn't it? Do you love it like this with men?"

"No, no, Mistress Orchid." Trembling; quaking.

"Did you _come_? While I was beating you 'til your cheeks were stained with my hand, were you _coming_?" It is an invitation to woe, to despair.

There _is_ no answer.

These absolutes, these perfections, they are a figment when your universe is abasement.

"Yuki- _tan_ did!" It's confession in quivering wild eyes. "Yuki- _tan_ did; she did." Gibbering, jabbering.

Aural eroticism.

"Oh, did you? You love it, don't you? It _is_ the most purified algolagnia? Not a bit of delicate _spanking_ for you."

"No, no, no, Mistress Orchid. Yuki- _tan_ loves it. Her- her lover won't do it like that; her lover says- says it doesn't do it for them."

"How selfish. But, well, would you like _this_?" Fingers oh so achingly delicate, not merely lacing but _stitching_ into the skirt's taut hem. A tug, a stroke, the nails sharp rasping punctuation. "Mmm... Would you like this?

"What's in my skirt?"

"Yuki- _tan_ would; Yuki- _tan_ 's begging for it."

"Then _beg_. Beg for me. Don't- don't do anything _stupid_ ," it's theater, the long-suffering sigh like melting aspic from the lips. "Don't bark like a dog or anything so fuckin' _cliché_ ; it's painful to watch."

"Yuki- _tan_ promises she won't!" A vow with the supremest conviction while her cheeks are painted in anguish's delectable gradations.

"Good _girl_. Good _slut_."

"Yuki- _tan_ is your slut-"

"You are _not_ _**my**_ fucking slut!" The palm's quick insouciant slap at a cheek is correction. "You're just a body for me to use. Do you understand that?" A _tug_ ; the hem rears up, up, up.

Cinches into hips voluptuous, sleek with fat's faintest _kiss_.

The stockings _bite_ into curvaceous thighs.

It is vanity; it is narcissism; it is a self-love that does not profane Ayumi's depraved dogmas, the conviction that the onanistic is unforgivable perversion.

It is a fervor to fuel that boisterous promiscuity. The elemental _perfection_ in this. To renounce the two-dimensional and even the fleshly in one's own body. Alone to dwell in the externalized, to cast out the moneylenders from the temple and the worshipers, also.

For it to be a sacral invitation to every invasion; to minister, and to witness on the street.

Knees shimmer with a faint sweat.

"Eat." It is an order, absolute and without equivocation.

And there is nothing equivocal adorning her face.

"You already know that a _good_ slut doesn't use her fingers. Only her mouth. That's what a whore's mouth is _there_ for, after all."

"T-that's right. That's what a whore uses her mouth for. M-my lover tells me that. It's..."

"Who _are_ they?"

"C-can't tell." Head shaken with a tremor that disturbs, tousles the hair in its soft satiny shimmer.

"You _can't_?"

"Won't. Yuki- _tan_ made a _vow_ not to tell. Yuki- _tan_ won't go back on her word."

"What a _faithful_ cunt you are. C'mon; c'mon. Here. A _gift_ for you. It's _very_ clean. There's not even the tiniest _drop_ of a man's defilement here. I don't _let_ men come inside me. Not ever. Ever. _Ever_." It is a lie.

It is the truth.

It's fingers slipped around the lips taut in their lush _thickness_ ; it's to split them apart, open them, brandish the heavy gradations in luscious fuchsia allure, in its coiling concentricities tumbling down, down, down, deep and deeper still into that strange shadowed place nestled in the hips where lust slumbers and dreams its febrile fantasies springing up in heat and sodden craving.

There is a _command_.

The lips and their tacky lilac gloss closer, closer, and closer.

Suicide is painless, you know. It is the act of life that churns with the flesh's essence, with the meat's anguish and its blisses. With the blood's urgent and implacable impulses. Suicide isn't only painless, but the act of expunging your woes and sorrows and your hopes, also.

Those fucking blue eyes.

Those mendacious blue eyes.

Those prevaricating blue eyes.

I hate them.

Pussy's wet squelching heat _ground_ against her lips now. And there is only electricity, rearing up, up, up.

"You deserve this, you know. To have your mouth fucked like the feckless faithless _whore_ you are, Yuki- _tan_." Because our faith is cognitive dissonance.

Because there are words that mustn't be spoken.

Walls will tremble.

Realities will break.

We will not countenance this.

We will writhe together.

We will melt into a being that is not communion and is not alienation, either. There is no doctrine in this, and there is no formula. Her tongue has twisted out, brushed with my own will's, my own agency's, manic vigor against the mouth.

Lips plump and succulent savor a perpendicular kiss.

Sight vanishes.

Jaw clenching; eyes still transfixed with _hers_ and it's a perversion. Wreathed in the smoky shadow and imprisoned in the great voluptuous lashes that have thickened more and more and more with the tears clotting in leaden mascara in their bristling quills.

There is an enchantment.

I am entranced.

I am _swallowed_ , also.

Her tongue is velvet lightning striped and slashed and swatted; a quick expert caress, gingerly swept up and down, eased between the lips and slipped deeper, deeper, deeper. The lust flushes, flares up; it _smiles_ , a dreadful grin that is not in teeth but only fangs, brutal and merciless.

A huge shuddering _growl_ from the throat.

"A-ah... Ah..." Yes.

Yes.

There are words that are not elusive, but altogether too fucking _urgent_. They are wicked immanences, _beseeching_ your attention, your forbearance. They must be cast off while fingers fall down, down, plait themselves into her hair.

A tug, and a pull, and it is irrepressible, irresistible.

The violence that rears up, up, up.

Touch.

Rake.

Rip.

Know the cheeks' satiny grace; know the hair in its voluptuous silk effusion.

Know the body.

Know the soul weeping out.

"A-ah..." Know _this_. Something that's not anything as prosaic as mere orgasm. Orgasm is a delirium, yes, yes, but it's only a phenomenon. This is the noumenon touched. For the most fleeting instant, it's there, cradled in your hand, _cinched_ between the fingers while your head is thrown back, while hair flits and rustles over your shoulders, cradles the fabric. It's a shudder, a _shake_ , spasmodic and angry and hungry and it is a dragon now, the earth split, the stone ruptured with a brutal splintering _crack_ like a bone lavished with a hydraulic press' embrace.

It is...

Here.

And there.

Great celestial fingers knead and nip and stroke and massage. It is algolagnia's essence. It is the pain that rears up from places deeper than deep. And I am become _bliss_ in this, in the voice upraised, howling and roaring.

"Y-yeah, yeah, oh, such a _good_ little girl you are, Yuki- _tan_. I... That's so _delicious_." Because it isn't orgasm. Isn't anything so constrained; it denies its very boundaries.

Orgasm?

This is not the word.

Not the simplicity in sweat and clenching fingers and the heat and the violence and the _pressure_ bearing down. It is electricity wrought as a blade, ripping up up up through the spine.

You are opened from fundament to neck with it.

With a _scream_.

"Waaah, ah, ah, that's- you will _stop_ now, whore." And there is obedience.

Stillness.

Her cheeks smeared with the tears and my lust in their muddle; her eyes quavering and immense and delirious. There's a will to...

To _kiss_ , to kiss, to kiss.

And so it is. Not dragging her up but condescending to admit gravity into your life, into the flesh, slipping down, down, a poetic Sapphism, yes, yes, we are reciting these great and grandiose wisdoms. Fingers laced together; her palms pulled to mine.

Twist and tug and _maul_ her.

Lips suctioned into my mouth; tongue twisted with hers. And the essence is _pussy_ ; is sodden sticky hungers. Is a caress, and a touch, and it is something _profoundly_ patient. Slowly, slowly, they pour together, spittle and lust and tongues. Kiss her, kiss her.

Sodden.

Slithering.

Mating serpents; huddling slugs. It is a perfection in the carnal, in the bodies that only know with blind groping esurience another body.

"Lie down; lie back. Now. Now." And so it is. It is a dance, a lassitude in the spine's wilt and the arms splayed out without ambition of cradling her nape, her hair a great sprawl fanned out along the creamy carpeting. The thighs are pulled apart with groping hands.

She is _mine_ ; she is a possession.

"You're not _mine_ , you know. Only mine _right now_. You don't belong to me, because I have no interest in _owning_ you. You can't foist a gift on anyone." Closer, and closer, and closer. The panties are a thickening in shadow, tucked into the caramel-skinned geometries in round luscious thighs slipping closer, closer.

"I'm _so_ fucking happy you're not one of those neurotics who'd abuse herself to have anything as fucking stupid, as _anime_ , as a thigh gap. A woman's thighs are _carnal_ ; are delicious. I only regret that I can't _fuck_ them.

"Intercrural blisses, y'know." And there is a kiss, a kiss. The sacral place, the boundary between flesh and fabric. The dimpling skin into which the slutty stockings _bite_. They are slutty because this has been commanded.

They are slutty because they're _painted_ on her skin.

They are slutty because I order it.

A kiss, and a kiss, and a kiss, and there is...

Is a sharp violent _shock_ with a glimpse of the plug's silhouette jabbing through the panties.

"So, you really _are_ wearing a plug, huh?" Murmuring from between her thighs. "Look at this slutty body. What _man_ would reject this fucking body? He cheats on you?"

"A-allll..." A mewl, a moan; melts down into a crazed _warble_ with teeth _spearing_ into her left thigh, and then the right. Gnawing, _kneading_ the flesh like marshmallow. Chewing it.

Hungering.

"All the time!"

"It humiliates you, doesn't it? To know that you're not enough?" The words are more brutal than any blow.

Than the _slap_ at a thigh; the belly _roils_ with a glimpse of the firm muscle and the fine tight fat in their succulent tremor.

"Yes! Yes!" And it is to know _her_ body's convulsions.

The wriggling hips.

The first _kiss_ at the thick rubber curtained in brittle black fabric.

"A-ahn... Ahn... Mistress Orchid-"

"You really _are_ a whore, aren't you? It'll be _quite_ the challenge to punish you, won't it? You love _everything_ , don't you, you filthy disgusting _cunt_? You're filled with jizz; I've tattooed on my hand on your face, and you can only moan my name like Messalina. Would you like that?

"I'm sure you would. To be public property; for your nasty insatiable _cunt_ to be splayed open for everyone to just _pump_. But it's just so desperately pathetic. You're too fucking beautiful. Like I am. How conceited, right?

"But it's true. You _know_ it's true. It's a neurotic and sexless and _passionless_ culture. They're afraid. The _boyz_ ," oh, oh, can you not _taste_ this wisdom spilling like venom from Ayumi's lips, "Are more comfortable with two-dee, aren't they?

"Could you even _find_ someone who wouldn't be afraid to bang you?"

"Yuki- _tan_ doesn't kn-knoooow!" And it is not only a kiss. Long, firm, _hard_ ; the lips _crushed_ against her. Pummeling, pounding, rearing up and falling down and now, now, now, how can you not _crave_ it?

Wafting the fragrance into your nostrils?

It is not yet...

Not yet the _rot_ that is the man's essence in confluence with a woman.

Sharp.

An intense hot _ammonia_ aroma.

Warm coins and salt.

But not rancid fish.

Not putrefaction.

"They came _thrice_ in you?"

"Yes. Yes. Yes. They- they made Yuki- made Yuki lie on her back and- and pulled her up until her pussy was facing the ceiling and they just- they _stroked_ themselves off in her the last two times!" What delirium in this unpretentious surrender.

In the perfect _obedience_. The _I_ , the personal, it's been effaced, obliterated.

"And you loved it." As if it could be anything _but_ this.

"I couldn't stop coming!"

"Then you'll do that again." But it is not with an invitation to consent; only fingers tangled like clutching seaweed around her ankles.

A jerk.

A strain.

There's an awareness of weight's shift.

An _obedience_ in the spine's arch.

Twisting.

Wrenched up, up, up, heels rearing up to greet the ceiling, her thighs splayed apart. A gymnastic perfection in this; an easy and untroubled athleticism.

"You don't _look_ like a fortysomething woman, you know. How _elegant_ you are; so fucking delicious." Peering down, down. And it's to know reality inverted; her body dragged up, up, borne aloft with the muscles' simple violent obdurate conviction, her _obedience_ in this.

In the thighs' trembling.

"A-ah, ah." Gurgling; groaning. Blood settling in her cheeks.

It's something absolutely delicious. Fingers settling around the sleazy skirt's zipper; a _vanishment_. And the panties are a triviality, fabric so fucking fragile that the meagrest tug yields a slow tortured rattle.

The frail lace surrenders.

Twisted away from an ass that's less flesh and more _geography_ ; a delirium in a heavy cloven perfection. The plug is an obsidian diablerie; her tits have simply slipped the tube top's cruel constraints, thick peachy nipples slapping down at her chin.

A perfection.

"Is it uncomfortable, little Yuki- _tan_?"

"Y-yes, yes, Mistress Orchid-"

" _Good_. Now, I'm going to see _exactly_ how fucking slutty this hole is. If there's _really_ three humongous sticky thick _wads_ of cum in you." It is not gentle; it's an act of balance, fingers laced around her left ankle, the right hand liberated to _wrench_ its heavy clammy bulk from her and...

And it's incredible.

Ropey nacreous seams just _unfurling_ in an instant; dragged behind it, pulled out out out, up, up, up, trailing trembling strands like cream thickened into gelatin.

A _scent_ ; not a funk, not a _stink_.

A scent.

Lips _brushed_ over the plug's broad bloated head; a surrogate cock. Something stout; the pussy doesn't merely open but _yawns_ , scalding deliriously pretty _pink_ raw and streaked with those quavering tight tendrils.

A kiss.

Once.

And again.

Lips caress and adore the plug; it's to know the simple fundamental _intimacy_ in this. An intrusion; a perversion. To _heave_ yourself into their communion, the joining of flesh and flesh and hunger and hunger. More than a kiss now. Yuki- _tan_ 's eyes enormous, inflamed, flaring open to vast quivering dreamy rheumy puddles while the tongue flits out.

Tasted.

It isn't... Isn't _expectation_ fulfilled. Isn't preconception's essence.

Sweet.

This is the only possible word.

A treacly allure in unplaceable femininities; not man and woman but only woman and woman, and it's a delectation. Dragged deeper, and deeper, and deeper, and there's a simple _need_ for more, more. But there is also punishment.

Penalty.

The plug cast away when its allure has been exhausted. Fingers are the only appropriate intimacy, aren't they? They are the mandated implement, _squelching_ into the sodden scalding puddle that's gathered in her, and it's an artillery shell crashing through a still pond. Great pallid sprays rear up, smear themselves over her thighs' soft allure, over the hips, splashing up with mucilaginous strands dribbling down down down her tight lithe belly.

"Ngnnn... A-ahn..." And her serenades are only an invitation to more. To two and three and four fingers; to the fucking _fist_ and...

"How _fucking_ _ **huge**_ a whore are you?" To be swallowed with such unperturbed ease. For the knuckles to vanish into those straining tight coils; to _melt_ into her. For the cum's vast lavish thick pool to be disturbed, displaced, _rising_ up in a great cohesive haze to pour along her ass' plump cleft, and down, down, down, a great wash _sliding_ over the belly to settle in the tube top's taut fabric, to pour further still.

Smeared on her tits' grandiose plush effusion.

A _scream_ rising up from her throat.

"W-aaaah, ah, ah, ah, Mistress Orchid! Mistress Orchid!"

"Coming, aren't you? Can't even fucking _control_ yourself when you're being fucked with a woman's _fist_. Disgusting; disgusting." While its sensual essence sloshes and shudders and eddies between the thighs.

While eyes _explode_ open.

Irresistible and irrepressible. Hammering at her; the knuckles grind down, deeper, deeper, deeper.

Taste the exotic essence in those novel lips, her cervix's hot torment. A squeal and a shriek with fingers outstretched, but there can be no complaint.

None, none, none.

"You're fucking _swarmed_ with cum, you filthy _whore_. You _are_ a fucking Messalina, aren't you? You'd just offer yourself at a brothel to anyone, wouldn't you?"

"Yeees!" Wailing up at me. "Yes! Yes!"

"I need a cock. The- the fucking _dildo_ ain't nearly enough. I'd need to degrade you with a man's useless meat." Snarling, roaring.

It's delirium.

A possession.

Yes.

Yes.

 _I_ have fastened my fingers around the thyrsos' great shaft, and I _taste_ its edge.

Its point.

Its bladed psychosis ground deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

The heart is not _nicked_ but only pierced.

The body is wreckage.

My soul is dust.

"Ah, _fuck_ , I need it. I need it!" Control simply abandoned. It is not Mistress Orchid's burlesque; no, no, no. It is not _theater_. It's only madness, gnashing, thrashing, _earth-rupturing_.

The sky snaps like ice introduced to a sledgehammer.

Pull her closer, closer.

Nothing matters but _this_ ; but the body; but _her_ body and _my_ body. A wish for communion, to be joined. Drag her against me; it is a sense of levitation, both of us crumpled over the carpeting.

Fingers find purchase in her hair.

Jerk.

Tug.

"I'm going to _fuck_ you now. You're going to scream and squeal and giggle and _howl_ like a whore, or I'll beat you 'til even _you_ can't take it. Do you understand?!" Rear over her; know the shadow's _flourish_.

It is not a creep. It's darkness concentrated, settling in a mere instant. Pour through the body. Hunger for her.

Slapped against her; it's hips upon hips.

Hers.

Mine.

A delectable _symmetry_ in those lips' kiss.

"Y-you're... Mistress Orchid, you're fucking Yuki- _tan_! You're fucking Yuki- _tan_ 's pussy!" Yes, yes, _yes_. "You're fucking Yuki- _tan_ 's pussy with your pussy-"

"You're fucking _right_ I am!" The shapes have melted away from meaning. But we are here; we are _twisted_ together in a grappling tyranny on the carpeting, stockinged legs in their long lean elegance tangled and bound and it's to know _her_ surrender as an absolute irresistible _need_.

A certitude.

Pussy _ground_ against hers with every long lunge fueled with her hair's tension.

Rear up and fall back and electricity simply _sprays_ between us.

It's awe that lightning hasn't blinded us.

That thunder hasn't deafened us.

Fall back and _snap_ up again.

Again.

Again.

Taste her with those lips.

Ground against her.

Heels planted in the carpeting. There is purchase; there is _surety_.

"Y-you're... You _are_ my fucking slut now. Do you understand, Yuki- _tan_?! Do you fuckin' understand me?!"

"Yeeeeees!" Because she is being slapped; because it's a hand on her right cheek, and on her left, and there's no delicacy, no gentleness.

"You're mine to rape; you're mine to beat; you're mine to enslave; you're mine to use and abuse and _torture_ if I want. Your skin is my canvas." Every word every _whisper_ every huge hot ragged gasp punctuated with a hand on her cheek.

"Do you understand?!"

"Yes! Yes! Yuki- _tan_ will _**always**_ obey!"

"Good. Good. _Good_ girl." Again, and again, and again. "I- I just wish I could cream you; I wish I could come inside you; I wish I could _ruin_ you with my cum. Paint you white. I wish... I wish... Ah..."

 _Ah_.

Ah.

Tortured huge hot gasps from the lips.

And there is...

Is a sense of _mortality_.

Not _petits morts_.

Authentic. Absolute.

Jerking up, because I will not. Not. Fucking. _Now_.

While the figure is sprawled out, lovely and achingly elegant.

"Now, go home." While knees shiver and tears limn a tormented silent melody down her cheeks.

"W-what-"

"I fucking _told_ you to go home, whore!" Bellowing. Roaring. Snatching up the plug and _hammering_ it at the carpeting; a comic ridiculous thing, its elastic grace bouncing, bounding, _clattering_ against the wall. "You're my fucking property right now.

"I've taken the gift you've offered. What? Are you unsatisfied?" It isn't movement. It's something nearer to a _blink_ ; an interval without time, and it is a knee crashing between her thighs. Hair jerked with a huge anguished yelp; a hand whimsically cracking at her cheek, wet and lovely.

Again.

And again.

And again.

And the answer is orgasmic; is her pussy's scalding staining hot shudder against my thigh through the stocking's fabric; it's a tremor and a convulsion and it's carnal perfection in this moment.

Wilting.

"Go home. Like this. Dripping with sweat; reeking of pussy; _swarmed_ with the jizz that's still drooling out of your nasty cunt. Don't even _imagine_ detouring anywhere to take a shower. Because I _will_ know.

"Do you understand?" Eyes transfix.

Hers.

Mine.

"Y-yes." And there is surrender; there is surrender, because it is not merely this instant's delirium but our fanaticism for this ideal called the future. It is eternally with this anxious insecure _animal_ clamoring for more.

We will hoard.

We will be _ready_ for this.

"Because this is _my_ order." Because all is order.

Ultimately, ultimately, our delusion, our craving, our _conviction_ is to order this world, to assemble it around our wishes.

Her eyes are blue.

The hues stain like ink wash, huddled thick and clinging to every _mote_ while reality bleeds off into the eyelids' hot darkness.


	4. Regel

To rule is not to reign, and to reign is not to rule at all. Actual _order_ , governance, it is not executed in the palatial corridors curtained in velvet luxury, steeped in perfume, effulgent with bejeweled excess. To rule is not austerity; it is not to gorge yourself on Spartan affectations. It is to _abandon_ these preconceptions.

The legitimate ruler dwells alone amongst the governed. It is to dine with them; it is to know their flesh; it is to have _slithered_ into their lives, ingratiated or inflicted, but it is, more than anything, to be always amongst them. It is not the flesh. It is the simple act of being, your aura stamped upon the psyche. To fear with the child's cowering superstition of the parent, the faithful of their god, the simple elemental _horror_ that is the Leader's disappointment.

It is not to know always the portrait scowling from the wall. It should be with cherishing bliss and quivering genuflection that the Leader's effigy is set upon the mantelpiece. It is to invite them of your own volition into the heart, and into the soul.

To be led is an act of infantalism. It is to beseech the surrender that is your own will, your own interests, your very conception of the _universe_ denied. It is a theology transcending all others. It is a negative spirituality, an externalized temporal fundamentalism that is imperishable in its endless clutching evangelism.

The Led are cowering children. They rejoice in this. It is with the supremest _bliss_ that this basal groveling gastropod life is not only countenanced but savored. It is to be glimpsed in the jackbooted ranks; it is to be known in the brownshirts; it is to be tasted in the cowering fearful haze that wreathes the faithful. The patriotic, also.

It is for life's collective resources to be forfeit for the intangible.

The Leader's being is not to savor luxury, and not to renounce it. The office's trappings and vestments, the ostentation or humility in the sartorial, in the tangible, these are apart from it. You cannot bestow with tiaras and crowns and scepters and gems the _legitimacy_ in governance. It is an act of the supremest paradoxical democracy.

All democracy, ultimately, is only committed to validating surrender in measures and degrees and gradations. They will offer their pleas with hands outstretched. The only rule, ultimately, is in tyranny _invited_. All others are transient. There will be rebellion. There will be upheaval. There will be violence. The assets that governance savors will be exhausted in coercion, in corruption, in the inferior measure of humanity that venality and not altruism will conjure.

There will only be loss. Will only be _death_.

The only authentic governance is by consent. The only authentic governance is in _submission_ , an act of surrender without compunction. An uncritical childish belief that the ruler's designs are sacral in their insight, in their omniscience.

Ultimately, all is _god_.

Language.

Science.

The state.

All must be god to all.

There is a quiescence to this, to this theological culture. The atheist is a fundamentalist, also; and the unbeliever is still ultimately not a heathen to every twist and quirk and gradation. Belief is not merely scientific, not merely religious, but simply _existential_.

It is less than Descartes, and more, also.

It is to abdicate our exclusive stewardship as the god of our own lonely world.

We will sublimate these fears.

We will seek _purchase_ in another's flesh.

Another's eyes.

Another's violence, also.

This is the tyrant.

A kiss, if you will. It is not invited, and not besought; it is only a command. An order in the fingers outstretched, in the _demand_ the hands announce. There is a kiss, because there must be a kiss. Because the eyes are immense; because they churn like an ocean roiled with _War of The Worlds_ violence, a visitation whose strange and eldritch sciences are so great and so terrible they are magic. They boil and bubble; the lips fall open with the jaws, an irrepressible bovine idiocy.

The tongue lolls out. The face is beautiful. It is beautiful, because it is willed to be. It is beautiful, because it must be. The wrists are fettered, fine and firm and slender and adorned with bracelets that glint quicksilver in the cold light clarified in its supersaturated flat lead-white. There is the essence of summer's swelter here in this place where the iron wisdom prevails.

There is heat, yes, but it is wrought only in the better-living-through-chemistry essence in the climatological fantastic. There is warmth battering at the windows; it is nature's own, and it _roars_ its animus, its opprobrium in great arms sprawling out like a hydrogen bomb's artificial sun. The skyline is _effulgent_ ; it is an ugly thing, something to be shrugged away.

The hands fastened forever around our necks in their lazy drift announce it is noon.

It is meaningless.

 _All_ of this is meaningless. The latex groans; the air-conditioner yields a sullen subdued little whisper. Its alchemy is in the finger's twist, artifice's tyranny over our world. I am the Tyrant; but even this dominion is something that lies prostrate before a deeper and wickeder oppression.

It is all technology. We all quiesce to _god_ , don't we? Whatever this god is?

"A-ah... Ah..." A gasp; a shudder; a _shiver_. The body is beautiful. Because it can only be beautiful. The firm chiseled elegances; the roundness in the sinuous femininity and the _hardness_ , the flat angular planes, in well-exercised strength. The shame that coils through the creamy cheeks in infernal staining streaks, the essence of sunset coalescing with defiance against the afternoon's temporal whims.

All is meaningless here.

 _I_ am her meaning.

Latex is painted in its sticky luster over the flesh; hers, and mine. There must be disparity in even this. The bustier _heaves_ ; the skin has darkened now with time's passage, with simple whimsy, into a caramel-kissed elegance, and so the rubber has become cream, slathered over the taut belly, the long long long legs.

Peer down and know the elemental _narcissism_ in this. The perfection in the heady delirium steeped and sodden with drink. It is not because this is the tyrant's _command_ ; it is not because it is what the Beauty craves in her self-flagellation. There is cash's whisper, a cold and perverse wisdom, but it is not imprimatur, and it is not mandate. It is only lubrication for this. It is a new normality; it is our _clamoring_ to exercise delusions of a greater control even while the lesser entropy rages.

It is all a fucking figment. Don't you see that?

And _hers_ , hers, the slender grace, the lean sinuous legs, ah, ah, how beautiful they are, also, _they_ are enameled not in black but in red. The harlot's red; or perhaps the virgin's. What _sublime_ disparities we taste in these cultural vicissitudes.

But she is steeped in the American ideal, isn't she?

A fucking Yankee affectation in her sumptuous Lizzie zeal. This has been drunk down now, smeared over the mind, _kneaded_ into the senses. The flesh is bared without shame, without anything like delicacy. The latex is not _wardrobe_ for her; it is little more than adornment, Whistler's madness smeared over the walls in aesthetic delectation.

The stockings pour into high high high bitch heels whose spined stilettos melt into a ballerina's cant, imperishably _en pointe_. It is weakness and surrender; it is meaningless. Even the _ambition_ to liberation would be to stagger over herself. The fingers tremble with gloves like mine, craning up along the arms' willowy elegances.

They are not emaciated; they are not heavy with muscle. It is that rarefied elusive feminine ideal, taut and slim and _young_ and it is for age not only to be belied but simply cast off into the endless biologic darkness with a deeper transmutation. She is a freak, a perversion. She has wrought her own captivity in chemistry.

The arms are splayed; the legs, also. It is an act of invited martyrdom, crucified on sleek steel perversion-by-Ikea. There is a minimalist elegance in this; it is still to gorge herself on this poison, this defilement, named _shame_.

The fear in another's eyes; the illusion in this judgment not merely kissing the flesh like a bee's wrath against a Tiger tank but wriggling writhing worming deeper, deeper. An ineluctable and irresistible invasion.

A _virus_. This is its essence. And so the crucifix is jointed, to be twisted apart and consigned to the comfortably innocuous, lest imaginations in a society that has abdicated this thing be permitted to stitch together the nebulous geometries into a wicked indictment against your very humanity for these lusts.

There is an act of suspension; it is not to know comfort but an endless tortured taut strain on the limbs, forever twisted, jerked away from algolagnia's fullest consummation. There is a deeper and more delectable cruelty still in this. It is to lace the ropes in their taut seams around the arms, the legs. For the shackles to join braided jute; for black to bleed into strange viridian coils.

It is to know the soft satiny skin ragged and raw with patterns in carnation.

It is not silence; there is not the gag's throttling embrace. The eyes are closed of their own volition, because there is a _will_ to gorge yourself on terror's pantomime. She is beautiful. She entrances; she enchants.

The figure is _tiny_ ; it is to know your vertiginous dimensions, your altitude and not simple height, when eyes peer into eyes and her slutty heels cannot even graze the heavy hardwood underfoot.

"How _lovely_ you are." There is a deeper wrath, however. It is a blood poison; it is a metabolic defect; it is a disease. It is a _defilement_. It lurks beyond the mind in its conscious dimensions.

It is more than _strange_.

Twisted, breaking itself along its own axis and coalescing again only to be riven open. It is... It is the quintessential broken glass, not to be snatched up with heedless impatience but to be prodded, jabbed.

Stroked.

Fingers gingerly _struggle_ , vainly, impotently, against the shards' raking violences.

It is Yuki- _tan_ 's will to ward away the pornographic siren's song.

"A-ah... Ah... Mistress Orchid. Mistress Orchid." A rasp; heavy, husky. A tortured groan from the belle de jour. It is they that offer themselves to be degraded. It is _their_ will for this. "Mistress Orchid."

"Shouldn't you _really_ be at university, you little whore? But you're not. Not at _all_ like Ayumi; not that willful indifference to _everything_ but her shapeless bits of theology. Her psychosis. You're craving _this_. And not even a lover's touch; not something forbidden. No, no. You're not stealing away to slip your fingers into some girl's or boy's hand; not to touch, and kiss, and be so _adorable_.

"Sprawled out in the heat on the tangled sheets that're black with sweat. Right?" The eyes will not open. "You're here. In this place; half-in, and half-out. In your own universe and in _mine_. Such a narcissist, aren't you?" It's a _crack_ ; a quick slap of the latex-lambent palm over a cheek. Cream upon alabaster spawns a lush fleeting scarlet negative, a quick _prickle_ like a flaw in cinema cellulose.

"A-ah, ah, Mistress Orchid-"

"And what the fuck am _I_ doing here, indulging you?" This is the question, isn't it? With the stilettos' sharp brutal _crack_ at the floor.

There are eyes.

They torment.

They lurk in eddying shadow.

They swirl in gloom wrought in your own silhouette. It's the eyes. Blue. Not sharp and incisive; not dim and idiotic. They are only blue. Profoundly _unnaturally_ blue. As surely unseemly for a Japanese as hers, also.

"Well, Haibara? Or should it be _Shiho- **san**_ now-"

"N-n-no, no, please. Please, don't call me that." While the lips quiver; while the body _strains_. The latex is perfunctory, adornment for the legs, for the long lean arms. A stripe _swept_ over the taut belly. The tits are bared, lush and pert and modest and elegantly upturned, the areolae broad satiny peach elegance.

"You really _could_ be mistaken for an American, you know, Haibara- _chan_. I never... Would've believed that you were Japanese." Fingertips prod the belly; maunder up, up, up. "What a delectable little Lizzie you are."

"N-not quite." It is not the Hei- _wan_ 's perversions.

It is not Yuki- _tan_ 's, either.

It is one star amidst a vast constellation that coheres into a protean textureless wipe through the dark. But every one can be plucked from its satiny nonsense and tasted in its fullest relief again at a kiss.

"Not quite? No? No?" Craning closer.

And closer.

The cables are drawn _taut_ around biceps, around luscious soft thighs. There is not brute athleticism's _strength_ in this. Not mommy's disease.

Not even Yuki- _tan_ 's jazzercise denialism.

"What does _that_ mean, Haibara- _chan_ -"

"It's- you know- you know that I'm with Doctor Agasa-"

"Oh, yes, I do. Agasa- _sensei_. What a _degenerate_ he is. I think it's remarkable. That... That _intimacy_ with a child. Even if she _is_ about eighteen or nineteen. And now? What is it that Ayumi told me?

"Right. Right. He's like a soft _teddy bear_ -"

"S-she told you that?" Incredulous; a _wheeze_ misted with spittle from the lips.

Self-evidently.

Because you would _crave_ that.

"Oh, yes, Haibara- _chan_. You know, it almost beggars belief that you're older than _I_ am. You're just... So _sweet_ ; tight. Young. Sleek. What a sumptuous gazelle you are. With a portly alopeciac polar bear." And it is a hand drawn back.

A _crack_ with an open palm on her belly; a whimper and a mewl and a _squeal_.

"He doesn't know, does he? About our little _games_?" Yes.

Yes.

The answer is _yes_.

How could he not?

This is not a shitty French novel.

"N-no, no, he doesn't." But this is the game, also, isn't it? The lies are fundamental to this. It is to taste the boundaries in their perfumed geometries, their strange coiling geographies. It is to feel the palm's _crunch_ into her belly again.

Groaning; straining.

"Oh, you're just so fucking _adorable_ , aren't you, Haibara- _chan_? Or... Oh, my, _are_ you Miyano- _sensei_ now? What an inspired little girl you must've been. But, well, that's what happens, right?" Arms wound 'round your belly; it's to know the tits' heft borne aloft in a grandiose marshmallow escarpment, weightless with the taut throttling latex.

The simple terror staining her eyes.

"S-stop it, Mistress Orchid." But we are still _here_ , aren't we?

Not _Ran_.

Mistress Orchid.

There are not the shackling boundaries in language that aspire to safety. There are not words; there are not whimpers or mewls or gesticulations or grandiose incantations or equations or alchemies or even theatrical wheeling convolutions in the fingers like one of _Sailor Moon_ 's top-heavy teenage magic commandos.

There is only _one_.

Ran.

It is to rupture this sainted delirium.

It is to hammer at this phantasmagorical universe's walls wrought not in our exalted architecture, in stone and steel and set ferroconcrete, but only a gelid and rubbery and endlessly protean illusion conjured from the mind's depths.

It is to say, _I'm getting off_.

It is absolute; it is supercilious. It is still fundamental to this. The Tyrant must understand their Subject's boundaries, their life's dimensions. This is self-evident. To run afoul of this is sensible judgment betrayed.

"Oh, really? Stop? Are you issuing an order to _me_?" Fingers _migrate_.

Maunder.

A peripatetic flit to the tackle that lurks in its scowling spindles flanking the crucifix. It is to brush, to stroke. The cables are a dolorous hue like foliage rancid and wizened and graying in their irresistible heavy bloated _rot_ , lavish in the steeping heat not with death but only life's ineluctable transfiguration.

A whisper over the rope; it is to know the body's quiver. The fine round hips cradle a universe in unknowable black more brilliant than the sun slanting through the window tyrannizing us, slopping over the floor, puddling at our feet.

There is a tremor.

Constellations whorl and reverse with gears' silent smooth grace on their axles.

"Are you ordering _me_ , Miyano- _san_? Miyano- _sensei_?"

"Stop calling me that. Please. Please. Stop calling me that. Miyano is-"

"Here. Alive. Animate. In the flesh. Do you imagine for a fucking _moment_ that the Blacks don't know about you? That they don't cradle you in their collective hands? You can taste their fingers in your belly when you sleep, can't you?" Closer, and closer, and closer.

A heel yields a brutal _crunch_ on the floor.

Noses slip together; there is a _kiss_ in hot sweat-shimmering skin.

There is not the lips' caress. No, no. It is to know the world rippling and distending and deforming itself like warm gelatin stirred with a cudgel's sharp slapping stroke. It is a whimsical and demented contortion, the lenses tortured in their ambition to _something_ like reality.

But there is no reality. It is only sight; it is only light and electricity in their confluences wrought alone in biologic vicissitude.

It is fingers rearing up to _spear_ into her cheeks.

"You little _whore_. Do you imagine for a _moment_ that you're not being watched? You see my eyes, don't you? These eyes? Did you really imagine that Porto's eyes wouldn't be for yours, also? You know... You really are _delicious_ , aren't you, Miyano- _sensei_?

"It's so _lovely_ that you've, oh... What _is_ that cliché? That you've seen the light. I know, I know, why _witness_ to you? Why minister to you when _you're_ one of the original apostles? Do you really delude yourself that a few years' trite _good works_ would be enough?

"Please." There are tears.

It is, of course, not the game.

There _is_ no game.

This is the game.

This is the dance. To wheel and waltz with a merciless teasing cruelty; it is not some adorable slap-and-tickle connotation. No. No. To _tease_ is to strain the body's and the soul's very boundaries. It is a game.

Have you played this game?

To crane your face up to the shower while its raking _bulk_ scours and rips and tortures and tears and ravages in its irresistible blistering blaze? This is the game. It is to try your discipline's very boundaries. You can, of course, cheat.

To summon the imagery in its ugliness that will warp the corporeal senses into little more than triviality.

That will numb you as surely as the body's attenuation to the electronic figments that have become our sainted two-dee reality.

But this is, of course, cheating.

This is the game, also. Not alone in the flesh, but in the spirit and the soul, also. With the scourge wrought in the divinity whose power scythes deeper and crueler than any other.

In language.

We cannot slip this wickedness' bonds.

Only the blood sluicing from the wrist is liberation.

Only the yawning hungry maw barking brimstone will free us from this.

Ah.

Yes.

Will you embrace this passage from captivity?

"Please. Please. _Please_ , Miyano- _sensei_. You're a fucking _hypocrite_. That's what you are; the deepest _essence_ distilled in your breast. Because you're here again. Because you're _afraid_. And you should be afraid.

"You are, after all, with Porto, aren't you? Oh, what a _delicious_ distinction. Vermouth is schizoid, isn't she?" There is only the familiar brutal sharp _stab_ in terror's urgent pangs raked through her breast. "Even the _name_ is fear for you, ain't it, Miyano- _sensei_?

"But why aren't you even _more_ terrified of Porto? After all, isn't _this_ name synonymous with so much? I'm not drunk on self-serving and self-justifying delusion, after all. These fists, well, they can still twist steel into pretzels; they can still grind concrete into dust.

"And they're still so achingly delicate, aren't they?" With fingertips steepling in their twinkling pale luster on her soft cheeks. "I could kill you in an instant, Miyano- _sensei_. And what's... What's so delicious is that I'd _miss_ you. Oh, oh, I would.

"Profoundly. Even more because I just don't believe in _anything_ at all. What is simply is what _is_. There is no heaven; there is no hell. There is no afterlife. I know this, because nothing else makes _sense_ to me.

"How is it possible that there could be life steeped in its brutal injustice at god's or God's or... Or _any_ divinity's creation, but a _paradise_ to reward you for your patience, for your beneficence? Loss is only loss.

"There ultimately is only fiction in gain. You know that. Otherwise, wouldn't you have swallowed another bit of the Apoptoxin?"

"W-why're you talking about this-"

"Because you haven't been debriefed, have you, Miyano- _sensei_?" The eyes are immense. Delicious; absolutely _sumptuous_.

The game defies anything as simpleminded as mere _boundaries_.

"A-ahn..." And the answer is long and quivering and plangent when a hand in its furtive skulking grace finds purchase on the ropes' heavy bundle.

A quick _tug_ is enough to wring a huge convulsive _wail_ from the throat.

"W-waaaaah! Ah! Ah!" A squall; a scream. It's perfection, isn't it? It's play-pretend for one whose flesh is not steeped in numbness but whose neurons simply _deny_ the delirium in the flayed supersaturated succulence that is this algolagnia.

The ropes bite _deep_ ; they must.

A dainty little strain isn't _nearly_ enough.

"Oh, _please_. What a cute little scream. But I know it's pantomime, Miyano- _sensei_. 'cause I know you have a _legendary_ pain tolerance. You can cope with a _great_ deal, can't you? C'mon. Tell me. Just _tell_ Porto, and it'll _all_ be over.

"You know, I've never been that comfortable with this sort of mandate. Don't misunderstand. Please, don't misunderstand. I'd never say that I can't _countenance_ it. It's hypocrisy, isn't it? That we nurture these _gradations_ in morality.

"Oh, for the soldier to kill on the battlefield, _this_ is heroism. But the assassin's dagger jabbed into a man's neck in a dark alley? _This_ is treachery. But the assassin's nimble violence may salvage hundreds or thousands or millions or billions of lives.

"Imagine, for instance, if it had been inflicted on Hiram Maxim. Or the man who first rifled a gun. Or the Chinese alchemist who devised gunpowder? Or anything at all. What, then? Human potential, right? You're a scientist.

"You'll always argue that progress is _ineluctable_ , won't you?" Fingertips steepled together with gloating diabolic theater.

The strain biting into her thighs and biceps will not slacken, will not dim.

"Won't you even say _anything_ , Miyano- _sensei_? Oh, _fuck it_. I'm sick of the _formality_. Shiho. Just _Shiho_. Because you're just _Shiho_ , right? What a delicious name. What a _sumptuous_ name for a faithless little slut." And it is an arm drawn back. Not a slap.

No.

No.

It cannot be.

Because the eyes beseech something _immeasurably_ more than this. It is a fist; knuckles and fingers and it is the confluence of bone and meat and _this_ is what is craved. Because the slap has become the shower's first scalding steam-curtained _kiss_ on the face.

It's not bone-pulverizing.

It's not the tissues riven.

It is not _death_.

Not Porto's dazzling violences.

It is only Mistress Orchid's. It's a quick wet _spatter_ in the belly; it is an ambition to doubling over, and to no avail, the ropes' tension jerking with a violent brutal convulsion. It is a plea for relief.

"W-waaargh!" There can be no gag, because this is an interrogation.

Because the deepest sincerity is tasted in the extemporaneous. Because the eyes flare open and the light invades like a fucking Panzer division thundering over the border; because the lips tremble and twist and grope for breath.

Because there can be _none_. Wheezing, heaving, groping at the elusive fitful motes and morsels of oxygen that were so _prosaic_ , weren't they? The corpuscles obeying the lungs' simple commands; the regular pulsation in in the diaphragm's muscles?

"What was that, Shiho? What? I didn't quite hear you. I think you need more _encouragement_. Not your pretty face, of course. That would just be an _unqualified_ cruelty; it really would be. Because you really _are_ quite the...

"The _rebuttal_ against this misogynistic culture's need to believe that genius and beauty are binary things, absolutely irreconcilable. It's just so _neurotic_ , isn't it? The most _popular_ porno with the most beautiful women, this two-dee bullshit, it's always degradation.

"It's always crushing them; always abusing them; always defiling them. It's something ritual. Admiring the tears welling up in their eyes; the slow cinematic slide down their cheeks. Right? I can't claim it _appalls_ me in principle. But it's the _reason_. I love watching beautiful women cry. Not because they're beautiful women.

"Because they're just _people_ suffering." It is reality.

It is fantasy.

Their convergence is the rope's essence. It is air and it is those heavy taut twanging threads laced together.

It is always a composite; there is never an _absolute_ in this.

"But that's not the suffering I adore; it's not when it's only to accentuate _one_ message. Surrender. Submission. For being a woman? What pathetic tribalism is that. But you _love_ porno, don't you, Shiho?" Closer, and closer again.

Fingers splayed out over her taut trembling belly.

"Isn't that right?"

"F-fuck you!" It's defiance in its purest guise. It's the eyes humongous and tear-sodden and it's the lips groping at purchase on even a single syllable.

"Oh, really? That's your answer?" How can _mine_ be anything but enamel-corroding? "How fucking _adorable_. Fuck _me_? I think you already have. More than once. Oh, what a _precocious_ beauty you were when you...

"Just quaffed down the antidote. And when I'd taste _him_ inside you." This is a boundary broken that should not be touched.

But there is no control now. Clutching at the ropes. It is not delicate and patient progression; it is rearing up from room temperature to bathing in a hot springs.

There is a wail.

"A-aaah! Ah, ah, ah! F-fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck, O-Orchid!" What disobedience.

Only _Orchid_ now.

"I _would_ ; I'd recognize it anywhere. That... That smug self-satisfaction even in the _cum_." Jerk and strain and _tear_ into her body. And there is another cable now slipped into the drum.

Laced up, up, up, a pair coiling around the lovely soft thighs, divergent and _pleading_ for a union tucked into the cleft that flares up huge and thick, that delicious sumptuous delta. Dark; remarkably dark, the lips raw and ruddy and straining.

There is a heat, palpable, raw, urgent, immense and intense.

There's a plea, rearing up on fragrant wafting threads.

The _rot_ in a man still sticky and sodden and stagnant, tucked into that warmth.

It still enchants. It is, of course, the disease, the defilement in the flesh. The _degradation_ that nature has inflicted on the female of the species. The simple mandate in the ineluctable evolutionary programming; the instincts and the compulsions that burble up, heavy and implacable. A quality like methane rushing up from disturbed pelagic strata.

It isn't fair.

There is a shudder between the thighs. It is to know with the pornography aficionado's simple voyeurism that there is a deeper geometry in this. Yes. Yes. This is _sex_.

"You fucking _slut_. Smell that _reek_. And- is that more than _one_ man?" The eyes immense, trembling. Jaws clenched. "What... What _is_ that?" It's something visceral.

Bestial.

While the eyes are averted in what the word _terror_ could only merit.

No.

Not terror.

While you're knelt, hunched, nostrils pulsating with urgent huge breaths that waft and _drag_ and _**suck**_ deep the fragrances that become _aromas_ in the neurological psychosis, in the heady juices churning and bubbling between your ears.

The fundamental perversion that is _this_.

A kiss.

It is not a delicate kiss; it is not a fragile kiss; it is not a kiss that roars _girlish_ , achingly fragile, the sublimity in Sapphic poetry recited in the perfumed candles prickling with velvet vacillating light in tangerine.

No.

It's a _snap_ ; it's lips _spattering_ with ten thousand noodle shops' collective produce in odious noisome vulgarity, in sonic violence that pummels the senses with a hurricane immensity. It is for the mouth to know her.

"You _are_ ; you're filled with more than _one_ man's jizz. Oh, _my_. Does the Doctor know _that_ , _belle de jour_ -"

"Stop calling me that." It's not quite the game.

It is not merely a quirk in the hips that announces the dance.

"S-stop touching me-"

"Oh, _really_? This dripping sodden _cunt_ is a little equivocal about that, Shiho- _tan_." It is delirium to savor this. "I think that I'd like a little meal. 'less you can persuade Porto- _sama_ that she shouldn't.

"Why? Something, oh, inviting a little shot of penicillin? _More_ than a shot?" To be so so so achingly _near_ to the flesh.

To admire the ruddy thick lips.

The quaver that announces itself with the inflamed flesh simply _peeling_ open; a night-blossoming orchid. So to speak.

The breath's hot whisper in its ricochet through the body.

Trembling.

Quaking.

"Well, Shiho- _tan_?"

"S-stop. Stop. Stop." Closer, and closer, and closer.

And which game, which _dance_ , is this?

Which step?

"One, two, three; one, two, three." It is something mirthful, a subdued little murmur percolating up from the lips. "One, two, three-"

"W-what're you saying?" And there is a plea on the lips. There is a palpable terror. No. No. Again, it isn't _terror_ in its brutal nerve-battering immediacy.

That sublimity named _horror_.

It is dread _in_ terror's possibility. This fundamentalism, this faith, named _potential_. It is possibility. Feared and adored in measure transcending our simple attachment to life in its immediacy. Life and death and future and past and present, they _coil_ together in a great whimsical gem, condensed into a diamond whose facets can be tasted at any instant.

There is no segregation.

It is to know only a perfection without geometry, without geography. It is a four-dimensional universe, and even this is something that is perhaps only the tiniest crust of ice on a dust mote racing through distant galaxies.

We cannot know.

It is only imagination, only our fundamentally primitive _ambition_ to fasten fingers around this, to grasp and clutch and plead for this wisdom, that fuels even a figment of it.

We are mistaken.

We have _always_ been mistaken.

Breath spills out cool now in shivers that lace up through the soft skin layered over taut sleek muscle and fat's faintest _kiss_ , unfurling spidering out like fissuring glass.

"Mmm? It's just our sweet little waltz. Pain and surrender and renewed disobedience. It's something endless. It's my _favorite_ dance, you know. The waltz. There's a demented and discordant _asymmetry_ in it. Other dance is fine, yes.

"Mmm... When it's absolutely _without_ structure. A woman's ass quaking with hip-shaking frenzy? Now _that_ is delectable. But the waltz is my favorite, I think-"

"S-stop. Stop-"

"Who _is_ this second lover? Third? Fourth? Why! Are you and the Good Doctor reenacting _The Ice Storm_ -"

"It's- it's a secret, okay? It's- it's a _Ran_ secret-"

"Fuck that!" Rage.

Why?

It's...

It's the _familiar_ 's sharp twinge; a tingle on the senses spattering and spacking with a crazed coruscating electricity.

It's fingers _slapped_ at the lips.

A wail.

A howl.

"I think you need more persuasion, Shiho. I don't think you fucking _get_ exactly what Porto's trying to exact from you. So you need _much_ more encouragement, you fucking treacherous cunt." We will dance, one, two, three.

"One." It is not to stand; it is to _levitate_ on the heels' brutal spearing spines. It is for eyes to capture _hers_.

"S-stop it, O-Orchid-"

"You will call me _Mistress_ , whore. Or you'll call me... Yeah, why not? It really _should_ be Porto, shouldn't it? Ruby Porto. 'cause I'm cool like that, right? I _am_ quite the cool chick. Isn't that what you'd always thought about me, Haibaaara- _chan_?" Cooing; a girlish little trill. "So...

"So _convivial_. So. Fucking. _Opaque_." A palm's brutal wet _crack_ on her cheek. "But that's not the truth. That's the truth that even _I'd_ wanted so dearly to believe. But it's not true at all. It was only one of those figments believed in consensus.

"It was something that I _needed_ -"

"W-what do you want from me? I don't fucking _know_ anything, Porto!" And here we are.

It is to reenact.

It is to revisit.

But there are quirks; convolutions. There are fundamental untruths that transcend only memory's muddled subjectivities, the geometries thick with shadow in the neurons' corroding imperfection. Even the _clarity_ in the eidetic is fundamentally a figment.

It is all subjectivity.

It is all _impression_.

There is the fist _ground_ into the solar plexus. There is the rope pulled once, and again, and again, and her voice's vaulting _explosion_.

"You'll tell me, Shiho. Goddammit, you'll fucking tell me. Do you know why?" Because there is a _table_.

In memory, and now.

So shall it be.

"Do you know why, Shiho? Look- no, no, _no_. Do _not_ fucking avert those pretty cold blue eyes from me. Those _Yankee_ eyes. You really are American, aren't you?" Fingers twisted around her jaw; they _bite_ into soft pert cheeks.

There is fear in its most elemental essence.

It is fear _distilled_ from every deed; it is captured in the sweat, and the spittle, and the breath, and the eyes' crazed tears.

It is peering through the cattle car and knowing the _unnatural_ , the perverse, the wickedness in humanity's industrial annihilation wafting on a bitter snow-dusted wind from the chimneys. It is to know that it isn't snow at all.

It's the fucking summer.

Even the Polish summer does not snow.

It is...

It is _rot_.

It is madness.

It is impunity, because we have been carved into our uniformed tribes.

Because _you_ are adorned with the gold star, and it is not a privilege.

And it is now painted on her. It is not in trivial vicissitude in boundary, in tribe, in faith, in the dimensions that we enlist to carve ourselves from one another, to announce this meaningless privilege in belonging. It is only the _weakness_ now.

In the body's impotence.

Barbarism is tyranny, also. It is perhaps its most sainted ideal, its fullest extremity. It is a right surpassing all other natural rights; it is the boot, and the cudgel, and the knuckles, and the bullet, and the blade.

It is the absolutism in this power.

To kill.

Destroy.

Ravage.

It's an arm drawn back, and it is our fanatical algolagnias in collision. It is this obdurate _clamoring_ for pain in its intensity, the junkie's resistance. Yes. It is the perversion, the _corruption_ in the cells that have been twisted irresistibly further in this sumptuous poison's image.

It is for the tissues to be attenuated to the junk.

It is the addiction.

And to bloat themselves, as the sponge clamors for more water, so too does the junk-cell implore more and more and more. To fuel this transfiguration, this transmutation, there must be more junk _still_. Hers is in anguish; in the nerves' crashing crushing subjectivities. In the neck's spasms; in the cheeks shuddering.

In the bruises that will gather candidly. It's to know the screams; to savor the splashing sloshing sexual delirium, the carnal drunkenness flowering through you with an intensity and an urgency that _no_ fucking speedball could ever capture, could ever aspire to surpass.

It's to be drunk with her howling.

The darkness, gelid and strange and protean, between your thighs, nestled in the hips, _quavering_ with hers in a succulent symmetry.

"You filthy fucking _bitch_ , Shiho! How dare you resist me?! How dare you deny Ruby Porto even one fucking _word_! How dare you try to avert your eyes from _me_!" And it's not the fist now. No, no, no. The eyes are frailer than any taut meat and bone.

It's palms _clapped_ with a wet slap on her cheeks; it's thumbs straining at the fringes.

Narrowing.

Slitted.

A heavily-lobed fiction.

"My, you could almost be mistaken for a fucking Japanese now, couldn't you, Shiho- _chan_? You know, maybe I haven't done this _right_. I've been so _kind_ , haven't I? My fists; my hands. The- the _manual_ craftsmanship that an industrial degenerate like you just can't quite appreciate.

"So I'll... Defer to that. Indulge you. Look." The words _twisted_ into her ears in hot breath while my face waxes, becomes her universe in its dusky sweat-dappled madness.

Because it is a mutual madness.

"Look. At. The. Table." It is there. Memory's tether to reality, even to fantasy. They are there. In their constellations. In their authenticities. It is not cinematic pantomime; it is the familiar table, a Mengele-by-Ikea austerity, steel platform adorned with an oilcloth that splays out its great pallid wings to cradle Tyranny's truest essence.

It is force.

When there is no persuasion, there must be coercion.

The supplicants exist to obey.

The Tyrant must inflict this, even if it will ultimately be an impotent ambition. The act of ordering a system invites only deeper entropy. But the system, even for the most transient instant, even _warped_ irrevocably in its relentless shuddering feedback, will be subjectively ordered. This is enough.

"Look at the fucking table, Shiho. Aren't they beautiful? You remember, don't you? You've seen them used before. Not with _my_ hands, of course. But yours!" Yes.

Because guilt _roils_ in the eyes.

"You know, when I read about the Germans, about the Soviets, about Savak, about the Mukhabarat in their countless gradations... Kenpeitai. The Americans and, fuck, even the _Canadians_ torture. The fucking _Canadians_.

"If there's a torture tradition amongst the world's _blandest_ people, the most exactingly achingly _banal_ but for- you know what? No. Even the _Amish_ are more turbulent than the fucking Canadians. But it's something fundamental. Medical ethics just- they become _memory_ , vaporous like ice tossed into the inferno. It just _evaporates_.

"Everyone forgets, you know. Doctors are suddenly not committed to _health_ ; only to an immediate... Well, it's the Kybernetik, you know. The ordering of systems. They become a _narrow_ bit of order. The subject must not die. They will offer their expertise in this; they will even commit their wisdom of the body to the...

"The perfect _leverage_ in the meat and the bone. A scalpel _can_ be worthier than a cudgel, can't it?" There are tears. There is earnest legitimate _anguish_.

Teeth rattle, chatter, like feet enameled in ice.

There is a sob, huge and convulsive.

It is true.

It is not true.

"So, you must understand, right, Shiho? Miyano- _sensei_ was... Was such an _enthusiastic_ participant. I heard that from Vermouth. Mmm... But don't worry. Porto _promises_ she won't divulge _that_. It's a promise." Whispered; hot and thick. Coiling up, up, an act of Sapphic elegance in pantomime.

Lips fastened around an ear.

The answer is a full-body convulsion.

It is a crazed shudder.

"But I _think_ I'll start with the wheel. What do you think, Shiho? Or- ah, ah! I think _you'd_ be more enthusiastic about the prod, right? C'mon. Just a _hint_ , darling." A whimper; a breathy huge _gasp_ from the lips.

"Shiho, Shiho-"

"I- I won't tell you _shit_ , you fucking lunatic!" It is rehearsed defiance.

It is a plea for more.

"Oh. Fantastic. It's always _immeasurably_ lovelier when you're given the time to _hone_ your talents. A bit of... Of abstract _academic_ study really is nothing like the reality. Thank you, Miyano- _sensei_. Always the committed teacher."

It is a kick; not in the brutal stiletto slut-heels but the knee, _lunging_ up with a chorus girl elegance.

Quick.

Acrobatic.

 _Slapping_ into the cum-sodden flesh, wet and sticky and smeared on the stockings with a heavy dewy _squelch_.

A groan.

A whimper.

And _heat_ in the cheeks.

"W-what the fuck do you _want_ from me?!" There is a wail cresting the lips, because there _must_ be. It is impotence; it is fallibility; it is _fear_. More than anything, it is this sumptuous craving for surrender without agency, without will. It is to be taken; it is to be snatched up, to be an object of hunger. It is not to open your borders, to invite the congenial occupier; no, no. It is to know the violence in the bunkers riven open, in death strewing the fields, in your land scarred with irrevocable brutality.

It is the jackboot clomping down your capitol's great boulevards while the resistance is strung up in great lurid orchards, blackened and bloating as a message to _anyone_ that would dare entertain hubristic fantasies.

It is to know _this_. It is forever to abdicate that power, the faintest pretension of it.

It is the perfected celestial gem-clarity in victimhood. Ultimately, surpassing all, this is our ambition. To whisper the words, _It's not my fault_. It is not victory; it is not success; it is not conquest. It is the sainted purified grace in knowing that it's not your responsibility.

No, no, no.

It is torture's _one_ utility. It will not wring a whisper from a fanatic; wills will not be broken in anything but delirious febrile fantasy, jabbering whatever the torturer craves.

Unless.

 _Unless_.

Yes.

There is an _unless_.

Unless surrender is already willed.

Unless quiescence is already craved. Unless there is an ambition to this, a fervor _for_ this. But it cannot be. It must not be.

It is will's pretension.

It is a delectable delusion.

Our culture's perversion, its deepest pathology. The disease named _face_. Only the Asians could have perfected torture so _exactingly_. It is a torture culture. Ultimately, all is torture in its measures in its gradations. In an obligation duly consummated, fulfilled, whatever life's authenticity.

It is to slip away while the eyes tremble; it is to know the cool luster in antiseptic quicksilver steel sibilant under a fingertip's caress. It is _her_ stare; it is terror's irresistible ineluctable _creep_ , slithering slaloming up, up, up through every nerve. It is a blood poison; it desecrates your very _neurology_.

It is sodden and sticky and bubbling with the tangled twisting misfiring neurology, with the scrawling convulsive electricity that wheels and cavorts a deforms sensations beyond their evolutionary dimensions.

The pain is craved as bliss.

The delectation in a caress is also.

There is no penalty, and no punishment, for this sensual ecumenicity. There is only an _is_ ; it is a being, absolute and hungering and ravenous and esurient and merciless. It is to peer at sensation's fullest scope with the words _all-you-can-eat_ staining the mind.

Groping.

Hungering.

Graze the gardens in the unreal, in the exotic, the steel lambent and twinkling in its great constellations of facets and brutal sharp Teutonic shapes as delicate as a Panzer. And it is to know the simple delirium in this. The _power_ wafting up in the pain that will snap and spatter and quake through the meat and boil the blood.

Which.

Which.

Which?

"You know, I've been _thinking_ , Miyano- _sensei_." Murmuring, soft, slow, syrupy from the lips. "Which would be _best_ for you-"

"I don't know anything!" The scream is rote, rehearsed. Perfect.

"Oh, I'm _sure_ you do. You're here, aren't you? One of the Blacks?" What succulent circular reasoning it is. "You know, I think... Ah! We'll _start_ with the wheel. It's just... It's so _unique_ , isn't it?" Not _snatched_ up.

There's nothing in haste.

The fingers are a slow sensual whisper; the rubber serenades with a faint little _groan_ , immaculately fitted, smeared with the lubricant in lucent silicone grace. Still, still, there are simple imperfections even when it's been _wrought_ in your image, a sumptuous husk like a second layer of flesh to be painted on yours.

There must forever be contrast.

It is not the archetypal Wartenberg Wheel. It is; it is not. A likeness of a spined pizza disc. It is something that could only enchant, capturing and spitting up again the light in great prismatic convolutions. _Whirled_ with a finger's twist over the lissome figure.

The hub caressed.

"A-ah, ah, what're you doing, Porto? Please, please, I _really_ don't know anything." Ah, ah, _this_ is the game's essence, isn't it? While the thighs convulse; while a great quaver rears up through every inch.

While the eyes tremble.

"Oh, Miyano- _sensei_. Both of us know that's a lie. And that's the reason this's so _beautiful_ , isn't it?" Because there is another figure lurking beside the crucifix; it is its rosary, a coiling constellation of figures knotted and kinked together, ribbed in its elegant thick black geometries. Plucked up, up, unfurling like an obedient cobra coaxed from its lazy dozing idyll.

Its fangs fastened around the wheel's base.

"W-what're you- no, no, no, you _can't_ do that. Don't do that." There is fear.

A glimpse at the sinuous silhouette maundering up up up from the outlet.

"Mmm? Why _not_ , exactly, Miyano- _sensei_ -"

"That's- that's crazy. That's totally fucking _crazy_. You'll kill me with that-"

"I'm not going to kill you. If I were going to _kill_ you, it wouldn't have an amperage control. It'd be _very_ quick, you know. Not at all like ol' Sparky in the United States. You're an American-"

"I- I'm not an American. My mother's British!" It's a meaningless protest. The lips are groping at _anything_ that will...

What, exactly?

"This isn't a court of law, you know, Miyano- _sensei_. And you _studied_ in America. If I'm mistaken about that one trivial detail, which is bullshit, anyway, what does it matter? Don't you understand?

"Look at the _beautiful_ sunset." A glance to my right.

It, of course, is not a sunset.

It is midday.

The sun is a flattened theatrical skein wrought in lead-white.

"It's- it's not sunset-"

"Oh, you're mistaken, I think, Miyano- _sensei_. Why, you'd need to be _blind_ not to understand that the sun is just... It's _sublime_. This sunset this evening dazzles me. Look at it. Just _look_. Through the window. The universe is _aflame_ with it; a quality like a bruise, you know. It's always been the most _poetic_ imagery to me.

"The earth as flesh. And the sunset is its bruise. Strata in hot raw red and purpling pain and even sallow sepia like its retreating dregs. Can't you see it?"

"It's- it's not even one in the afternoon-"

"Miyano- _sensei_ , I can see that we have _quite_ a bit of work, haven't we? But that's fine. You see, Ruby Porto _might_ be one of the Blacks' most distinguished assassins, but she's also _quite_ the interrogator. You know _that_ by reputation.

"And Miyano- _sensei_ is infamous as an interrogator, also. Devising so many pharmacological aids. But it's more than that. You'd be there when, oh, one of the _others_ needed to involve themselves more tangibly.

"Get physical and all that." Murmuring it now. _Let's get physical, physicaaal_.

Yes.

The eyes are humongous. Tears have become a great brittle wash over the eyes like warming ice quivering with its own juices liberated in the heat's caress.

"S-stop it-"

"No. I don't think so. Not until you tell me that the sunset is _gorgeous_." The wheel's an elegant _whisper_ over a finger; the electricity is a numb _inkling_ , a dead unfulfillable ambition as vacuous as a politician's promises straining up through the metal and finding purchase on nothing.

Nothing.

Cradled in the right hand; the left _flattened_ over her tight belly.

"You have _one_ last hope, all right, Shiho? Let's abandon the formalities. Finally, finally, absolutely, _without_ them. I'm Porto; you're Shiho. So let's talk. Candidly. Woman-to-woman, yes? You're just... So _beautiful_.

"I've always been a little in awe of how lovely you are. Mmm... I've always been so _envious_ of you. As desperately and deeply pathetic as it is. You can tell me that it is. There's that blue-eyed _liar_ ," and this is the deepest affront, the wickedest aspersion.

Isn't it?

How could it be anything but the most abhorrent? It isn't to deny reality in its fantastical idiot figments in _consensus_.

It's to fabricate your own non-reality. It's to recoil away not even from truth; no, no. It is to surrender to _shame_. It is to fear your own judgment. It is not even another's. The deepest lies are those that are never spoken aloud, that are cradled against the chest, that are _kneaded_ into the heart.

And this is what he is.

"That mendacious _bastard_. How often had you tasted him? How often did you betray _my_ trust, Shiho?!" This is...

Is not quite the game.

The dance.

It's to know a stagger. Ah, ah, was that a _fourth_ beat in our waltz?

But what the fuck does it matter? It's the fingers splayed out creeping up, up, up to the fine soft breasts. The graceful upturned warmth that is not the lavish manga-perfect _hugeness_ that commands adulation in the word _tits_.

But they are lovely.

Cupped.

Cradled.

There is an ambition to a flinch; there is the bliss in mincing and pirouetting along consensuality's knife-edge, even while its very _being_ is the toes and soles ravaged and ripped and gouged and torn and tormented.

This is the bliss to be savored in your self-flagellation. In every nerve kneaded with napalm flamboyant in its neon madness and steeped in tropical inferno and finally, finally, there is the fire-swallower's exuberance for the blaze.

The first spark.

You will be incandescent, won't you?

"A-ah... S-stop, stop, don't touch me! Please, don't touch me like this." Because this is our game. Because this is _her_ wish, her will, that dare never be admitted.

It is not hers uniquely.

It is obsession.

It is the most fundamental sovereignty. It is our body's preciousest sanctum; it is our _one_ most elemental morsel of power. It is not the patriarchal horseshit that our _chastity_ , our untouched untarnished sanctity, is worthier than life. It is not this.

It is something absolutely apart from that. It's to _be_. It is your most elemental judgment. It is something sublime; something delicious. It is lust in its immensity, its craving's hugeness boiling up from the fundament, from deeper darker places still. From the primordial waters in which huddle basal instincts.

The need to breathe.

To eat.

To drink.

To _breed_. Yes. They cannot be disentangled. It is our mechanics, our wiring. Our soft machinery mandates this, and we cannot refuse. To shit into these waters is an inexpressible evil. And so we are afraid.

We are afraid, because _you_ delude yourself it is your right to touch because of the flesh tucked between your thighs.

We are afraid, because _you_ gorge yourself on the figments of tyranny in simply gratifying yourself with another's body; because you are afraid, because your neuroses recoil away from the awareness that it is not man in its political violence but _woman_ that exercises power's most essential dimensions. It is control of _this_. Of the body. A whim, a quirk in a whisper, a kiss, a caress, a _twist_ in the hips can simply ravage your universe's security. Its stability.

It is of little meaning that we will also suffer this.

It is the narcissism amongst those whose _expectation_ is tyranny. It is the delusions of unfairness in what could only be fairness' essential guise.

It is the need to punish this as surely as any Strange Fruit.

We are to be penalized for being.

And this is a pantomime lynching. This is the fantasy that roils and throbs in forbidden places, not stained with that ideal, that normative _corruption_ , named _aversive_. No. No. No. This is its consummation, its will in its fullest craving.

It is unperturbed oxymoron.

The consensual nonconsensual.

The _clamoring_ for this. To feel the flesh dimple and yield under groping fingers. To tug and pluck and strum and pull and to know her lips' rubbery tremor; to admire the cheeks furrowed with jaws taut and clenching. The eyes in their immensity.

"P-please, don't do that-"

"Oh, I am." Dipping down, down. Savor and _gorge_ yourself on the perfection in vulnerability. In the sweat's sharp bitter tang that sprays up over the tongue lolling out to flit with an electrifying lap at the nipples' heavy peaks. The answer is predictable.

Defiance.

A strangled gurgle and whimper and it's for the eyes to flit up; _come-hither_ in its poetry under leaden lids, wreathed with lashes in a great inky sunburst.

"Was that a _moan_ , Shiho? I think it was-"

"N-no. No. It wasn't-"

"It was." And there is a kiss; once, and again, and again. It is the lips' caress; it is something promiscuous, insouciant. Teasing the soft lavish skin; tormenting the succulent creamy grace. Touch and lap and flit and flicker and now, now, it's the _teeth_ brandished with a hot cruelty, sinking into the plump fat.

"A-aaaah! Ah! Ah!" It's pain; it is bliss.

It's a palm _cracking_ at her cheek now. It's the glacial melting down into an avalanche in a merciless crunching violence. It's to beat her, beat her, to hammer at her left cheek and her right and her right and her left with the open hand. It's knowing the sharp spearing violence in its ricochet even through the gloves.

Her heaving hot wet gasps; the spittle dribbling down her chin, gathering in a thick shimmering smear on the skin flushing and hot now.

"P-please, stop it, Porto-"

"No. I don't think so. You see, you're not answering my question. But before I even _start_ asking them, I need to know that you're telling the truth." A glance again at the flat white smear that tyrannizes the window. "So, isn't the sunset beautiful-"

"There _is_ no sunset." Defiance. And it's the wheel just _brushed_ on her belly. The electricity is a mere _prickle_ ; the steel is the most achingly trivial tingle. But there's already expectation's, horror's, lubrication smeared on every nerve.

It's an intensifier; it's an _amplifier_. Cranked up to fuckin' _eleven_. And now, now, there is the first sharp yelp.

"P-p-please, please, no!"

"Tell me about the sunset, then, Shiho!"

"I'm not going to lie for you!"

"Then you'll need to just cope with the truth." The wheel not only _pricked_ now. The first long slow _stab_ into the soft pallid skin. And the answer is immediate. The lips quaver; the body spasms.

The cables and the fetters lashed around the fine slim wrists and ankles shelter her from the ignominious spectacle, the artless _ugliness_ , in thrashing and heaving and _hurling_ herself across the floor. It is not a trivial little spurt.

Ozone's stink cradles the nostrils.

"A-ah! Ah! Stop it! Stop it! Goddammit, it hurts!" Yes. Yes, it does.

"Oh, it's just a little _spurt_ , you know. It's not as if it's _constant_." Just... A regular pulsation, the wheels dimpling her skin, wending up up up over the belly, and down again. It's something enchanting in its sonic cruelties.

In the profound pummeling _assertive_ algolagnia in it. In the wheel's peaks _spattering_ with an urgent hot discharge like pocket lightning, an instant's relief in its lapse before it begins anew. Again. And again.

Again.

It's a napalm inferno stirred and stoked between the thighs.

It's a will for a man's idiot flesh.

For that metabolic malady's genesis.

There is envy. Yes. Yes. Not the malleable political dimensions; not the moronic Freudian figments. And, well, Freud's name should never be _whispered_ in the immediate fifty trillion light years of a woman's desire.

But there is a craving.

For that hot coiling thing to be clamped against her thigh's lavish soft skin; to ease it up, up, up, closer and closer and closer to the plump lips that _drool_ their hunger in satiny turbid threads from the hungering mouth.

Pleading to be filled.

Overstuffed, and still a Viking's fervor for _more_.

The hand falls.

There is a brush; it is something biblical, a _knowledge_ of this, also. To know; to taste; to _savor_ in its urgent candid quavering.

"My, my, feel _that_ -"

"No! No!" The eyes crazed, hysterical.

Swiveling and trembling and bubbling with tears. The body still oh so _candid_ , isn't it?

"Oh, I don't know, Shiho- _tan_. Feel that _nasty_ cunt. You're just boiling with lust, aren't you? And don't try to persuade me that it's _only_ biology. How perverse you are to be _that_ mendacious. Isn't it uglier to deny reality?

"This is reality, you know. We can talk however we'd like, can't we, about the subjectivities in sensation? But you're feeling it." Fingers cradle that lovely wet hot skin. "And _I'm_ feeling it." And they are eased apart; _she_ is twisted, splayed open with a quick tug. And the eyes can only betray their surrender.

The wheel is dragged up and down and up and down; flitting further, further, further to the breasts in their lovely pert bulk.

A _kiss_ on one of her nipples, pinched and puckered into a crazed clutching fuchsia psychosis.

"W-waaah! Ah! Ah! It hurts!" And it does. And this is the depraved truth, isn't it?

"It _does_ hurt; there _is_ pain. And it's only puddling _here_." Ring and forefinger splitting her apart; and the most _apt_ finger jabbed now between the lips.

"N-no-ngnn..." Jaw clenched; teeth gritted.

"Oh, _my_. It looks like there's not only _pain_ , is there?" With the electricity's brutal sharp spray as punctuation again, and again, and again.

It is a great warbling Oktoberfest waltz in bleating trumpets and pummeling timpani.

"I can feel it, you know, Shiho." A whisper scalds her cheeks; breath is perfumed in vanilla and spice. "Can't _you_? Even through the glove, it's obvious. You're _sodden_ -"

"I'm afraid! I'm afraid!" The voice is nothing so _clarified_ ; an articulated pummeling warble in the ears. "I'm- I'm just afraid!" While her lips twist; while her cheeks strain; while the body _heaves_ against its fetters.

"Really?" And so there is the first _brush_. Slowly, slowly, oh so achingly patient, _plodding_. A firm strain upon the spongy luscious flesh pulsating now with a palpable huge urgent lust. "Is that so?" And the wheel, well, it's...

So anemic now, isn't it?

Slipped from the cable. Because there's a deeper bliss in the serpent's bare fangs.

"Are you _sure_ that it's only fear?" While the stroke becomes an urgent long deliberate pressure.

While shudders coil with a relentless undulating standing-wave frenzy along the spine.

"Nngn... It's- it-"

"Tell me, Shiho. Won't you? Isn't the sunset _beautiful_ this evening?" While the fangs spatter and seethe and _riot_ with electricity's brutal indigo promise. While the serpent's jaws are slipped closer, and closer, and closer.

Her eyes are immense; blinking would be to invite not only vulnerability but ruination.

To deny yourself knowledge's perfection for even a transient little _instant_.

"P-please, please, don't do it-"

"Don't do _what_ , Shiho?" It is not even to interrupt.

Subjects are not entitled to speech, to voice, to _agency_ , are they?

How ironical. Because she is the subject, yes, but the reality is that she's the object. Aren't we just _delectably_ witty?

"Don't do what?"

"Don't- don't hurt me. Pl-puhleaa..." Language melts like gelatin tossed onto sun-blistered desert dunes. Because it's now not only one finger but two, splayed apart, slathered with her with them with the lubricant, twisting and wheeling, lurching up without delicacy, without patience.

A huge convulsive _pump_.

Their lust conjoined and still _frothing_ scribes a quivering wet _squelch_.

"Well? Well? Tell me, Shiho. Tell me. But it doesn't matter. 'cause this slutty fuckhole is much, much, _much_ more candid, isn't it? And I'm sure it's not only _this_ one. I wonder if it's just _drooling_ out of your ass-"

"Nngn... N-no, no, _no way_. No. I- I hate anal." And this is perhaps true.

"Well, a chick as anal-retentive as you-"

"Stop it. Please. Please."

"Tell me you're afraid." This is the command. Not as a roared jackbooted order but only liberated to coil and flit and flicker through the ear's graceful concentricities, its fine enticing ridged convolutions.

The tongue's slow caress.

"Tell me you're afraid." With voice as little more than a hot articulated breath. "Tell me you're afraid."

"N-never, never, _never_ -"

"Then why should I listen to you?" Not the fangs, but only a fist. Again. Fingers dragged out of her cunt and knuckles gathered in a bulk as delicate as a rubber-draped cinder block. A blow to the belly; a crushing _hammering_ stroke on the ribs rearing up in a fine relief. "What a good little bitch you are, Shiho.

"You know, I read that a dog's ribs should be just _barely_ perceptible. They're at the _perfect weight_. And you seem to be, also. Such a lissome lean beauty." Groaning; gasping; gurgling.

And every _wheeze_ ; the solar plexus' brutal dimple; the lips straining and spittle-smeared and clutching at breath...

Everything is _lust_. Heavy and huge and flowering up through me.

"You're so fucking _delicious_. I've had enough of listening to you, Shiho. I've had enough of listening to your _shit_. The sun is setting. Isn't it beautiful?" Rearing; _looming_.

Violence vowed even in the posture.

"N-nooo!" A scream is a plea for more, more, more. It is to peer at algolagnia's great scope and glimpse only a buffet; it's for the fingers gloved and lacquered in scarlet to spasm and clutch and clench at absolutely _nothing_.

Liberation is a hope.

And hope is meaningless.

"Yes, yes, _yes_. It's a beautiful sunset. Just tell me that the sunset is beautiful, darling-"

"No!" _Rattling_ on my brow; a heavy hot spittle clot _unfurling_ with a graceful floral fragrance over my skin.

"Oh, look at _that_." Brushed away on a finger; swept over my tongue, rolling out to savor that... "You even _taste_ like jizz, you know, Shiho. I think you've _really_ acclimated to your new, ah, _geometry_. These proportions. I wonder...

" _Whose_ cum is it?"

"S-shut up-"

"Shut up? I don't think so." Her belly finally introduced to the fangs in their fullest venom.

A brush.

And there is only silence; voice melts away; screaming dissolves into the churn. The pain is something _immense_ ; the fragrance is not charred flesh, no, no, but only the lightning-strike ozone wriggling up through the nostrils.

"Well? Oh, I _adore_ your screaming, y'know, Shiho. I _love_ the screaming. I just... I _feel_ it. Here. Here." It would be bliss to drag the lovely fingers south, south, south, tumbling beneath the equator where it's winter, but, well, that wouldn't be _practicable_ , would it?

Not with the wrists fettered.

Not with the muscle melting down and frozen and melting again and again and again in vast rippling convulsions; not with the body simply _dying_ and being resurrected once again. It is an act of transcendence.

It is to know something celestial; it is to gorge oneself on the biblical, on the _primordial_. It is hot whispers rasping up from dusty caverns cradling idols whose meaning and whose dark eldritch rites have long since been extinguished from the collective fiction named _reality_.

It is a wail and a howl.

It is to invoke the Old Gods; it is for the body to become the Godhead, to nurture the flesh as a temple, and to cast out the moneylenders and consecrate it again to a sublimity, to a _perfection_ in the meat as meat and the bone as bone and the blood as boiling hot red rich delirious delicious _blood_!

It is the flesh _stained_ ruddy and livid and tormented with every new coruscating lightning tendril that rips through the body.

It is to jab and grind and gouge and the figure is now Cleopatra's sainted romantic asp. It is all bullshit, and it is also all true, because these points cannot aspire to anything but dualities in their ineluctable craning confluence, _crushing_ together like great hubristic imperial architecture introduced to their victims' wrath.

It is roaring.

Wailing.

It is an ambition to the head being thrown back; it cannot be. The jaw shudders and the flesh _shakes_.

"It's almost religious, isn't it, Shiho? This _pain_? It's a purity, ain't it? _I've_ tasted it; Ruby Porto has _gorged_ herself on this. It's empathy for me. Not only _sympathy_. I have no sympathy. Mmm... Y'know, I _might_ have no empathy, either.

"Damn." Wailing.

Shrieking.

The voice is raw and husky and _brutalized_ ; it would break if it were not simply being ground and compacted into a great cohesive aural skein that curtains the ears, that teases and torments and slathers and salves and splinters and twists and coalesces again into a stained glass madness.

The images are protean; there is a van Gogh quality in all of this.

She would be _much_ less beautiful without an ear, however.

An ear to nip.

To nibble.

To kiss.

While the tits are scalded with electricity's hunger, fingers will meander elsewhere. They will grope and clutch and cinch and nip and tug and pull; they will fasten around the tight lush lips falling open; they will find purchase even on the sodden slick flesh and stroke and hunger and grope and _tear_.

The only answer is screaming. More. And more. And more. The universe is wrought in her screams. The world's boundaries. Life's very geometry it this, distilled to its essence and condensed further and further and further 'til it can simply be painted in great heavy gouache across the strange canvas lurking between the ears and behind the eyes.

There is flesh _here_.

There is her body; there is mine.

But there is something deeper, cohering and gathering. Wrought in our mutual labor, our collective effort, smeared and lacquered and slathered and it is to know the sumptuous duality in the Caravaggist and the Impressionist.

The absolutes in their succulent sensual subjectivity and the simply _demented_ ; those that've cast away even the meagrest pretension of form and guise and shape in their absolutes. Her body and mine; mine and hers. Eyes flare open and tumble closed and this place is now not merely twilight but something darker still while the _Ode to Joy_ strikes up again with a melodious whimsy.

It is a crash; it is musical _thunder_ in the ears while the electricity spatters and slathers and is not merely content to kiss. No. No. No. It is not only a kiss.

Someone, self-evidently, will need a turtleneck _tomorrow_ , dahlinks.

Smear it over her right breast, and then the left.

There is terror.

This is a game, yes. It is a dance. And this is a game whose dimensions are still steeped in the wisdom that the most passionate love will always leave marks. Will always yield the indelible and the imperishable and the _permanent_.

The neck has become a warped and undulating constellation of geometries that aspire to geography as imperfect and twisted and brutalized as the Tsar Bomba's ground zero. Its name is found only in these gradations in numbers and mountains and figures and seas.

Seventy three degrees north; forty eight minutes and twenty six seconds. Fifty four degrees east; fifty eight minutes and fifty four seconds.

There is thunder.

It will peal out.

The Great Bear's arms are outstretched; its bowels throb and thrum and quaver with its flight's simple violences. It bears a sublime burden in its belly; its being is merely to _disgorge_ this. For the planet to tremble with its wrath.

Ah. Ah. Ah. You will taste its _fury_.

The villages will be as dust.

The stone will not melt but become merely _sand_.

The rock will fissure.

The wood has not charred but only atomized.

The roofs will be peeled away.

The mushroom cloud will be glimpsed from the planet's every reach; its bulk rears up, a stirring giant tossing off its torpor, and dwarfs Mount Everest. Human Creation has transcended Genesis, has it not?

Ah, ah, what a banality to _create_. For the planet's humors and its juices in patient communion to cohere into proteins, and these proteins into cells, and these cells into great convolutions. This is _destruction_. To defile and desolate. Not merely to plow and salt fields but to poison the land, to blacken the sky, to desecrate the water. To annihilate _all_.

To cradle in your hands a wrath that would awe the bad-trip messengers of the divine whose fury was visited upon Gomorrah. It is not only a lysergic acid nightmare a thousand miles high. It is not merely an infernal blade wreathed in brimstone and hellfire and with the Wrath of God.

You. Are. God.

We are fucking _God_ now.

Do you not understand? We have consummated the atheist's ideal. To _vindicate_ our conviction that we _are_ the divine, that none other can aspire to surpass us. It isn't _murder_. What enchanting naïvete. Murder is man and man, woman and woman, man and woman, every gradation thereof.

It is not _slaughter_. Slaughter is still with a sense of _perspective_ in power; in surrender and genuflection.

It is not _**war**_. War is the industrial, the political, an order unto itself, the familiar, the _real_ insofar as our childish consensus is concerned, only canted on its axis.

This is fifty megatons.

It can aspire to a _hundred_.

It will be greater still when Sakharov and Khariton and Zel'dovich and Trutnev surrender to the elemental _hubris_ fueling this. When all that we laud and cherish and uplift and uphold is ideal is finally finally finally _**finally**_ bared, _exposed_ , as the senseless figment that it is. Laughter? Joy? Bliss?

Do you not _see_ the simple truth rearing up, the great incandescence whose bulk, whose own violence, whose shockwave bears it aloft with its own dread fury?

We are _annihilation_.

We are _destruction_.

This is our truth. Our society, our civilization, our ambitions to permanence, they are an act of collective cultural self-delusion. The permanent is only The Deep Lie. The Deepest Lie. It is to persuade ourselves that we are not what we so self-evidently fucking _**are**_.

This.

Царь Бомба

Wreckage.

The radiation plumes high.

Fuck the lead tamper.

We must gorge ourselves upon uranium. We are become our own horror. The children's eyes will melt in their sockets; the women's screams will become our anthem; the men's deep terrible basal horror, their flesh sloughing from their knees in the great nuclear ocean while they fall in genuflection before The Spirit while it reveals itself, the great djinn whose essence we have only stewarded in our collective soul.

We will march into sunlight, from the darkness.

And from the sunlight, into the dark again. We will bear them aloft in a great wailing funerary procession, one without sorrow, and with only the deepest joy. The drums in their terrible timpani toll will announce our progress, our ineluctable passage into this ideal named The Future.

Happiness is a warm gun, but I bear a torch song for something a bitmore grandiose in my heart. I am a child born of Sukhoi Nos. I am a child born of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I am a child named Trinity. I am the flame and the fury and I am the cold empty _nothing_ , also, in the cartridges of god that have never known their consummation, whom the craven politicians have been unwilling to cast out in their great multitudes, the pearls to be sewn in swine's name. I have been stymied in this.

Taste the screaming.

Kiss her, and kiss her. Dagger fingers _deep_ into her, and know the Dust Bowl in her lowing torment. The universe is not a Möbius strip, is it? And it also is. Its dimensions cannot be known, but its _gradations_ can be, wheeling over a horizon wrought not in nature and not in geography and not even in geometry but only the imagination's vanishing point and twisting back again.

We will never taste the Truth, will we?

Eat her.

Eat her.

"It- it hurts! Goddammit, it hurts so much! S-s-s-s-stop it!" Yammering, anguished, a crazed jabbering stuttering convulsion.

"Oh? Does it? Does it?" It is nothing as simple as exhilaration.

It is for Oppenheimer to feast upon those moments whose sun-bleached sands shimmer with the merciless July swelter, whose eyes are curtained in goggles that will not shelter him from the act of sacrilege that will be wrought in a mere _instant_.

 _Four..._

"Does it hurt, Shiho? That's what I'd _hoped_ I'd hear. I'm so fucking _happy_." While lips vanish into her hair; while there is a nip, a nibble, a stroke, a stripe, a _kiss_.

Adore her.

Laud her.

 _Lust_ her.

Is there a grain of love to be found in this flesh, in this body? What ultimately does it matter? What _could_ it ever aspire to matter? Fingers _skewer_ her; rear up up up while the thighs are not only splayed apart but twisted into ravaging _anguish_. The hungering hissing serpent is pulled down, down, down.

"You're so _beautiful_ , you know, Shiho. Some women are _desperately_ ugly when they're twisted in anguish like this. Not you. No, no, _no_. It's exquisite." To slip away; to _capture_ her, frame her, in the eyes. Her face's strain and the eyes tumbling back, the cheeks stained carnation in the bliss that must _not_ ever be admitted in the heart.

In the soul.

Shuddering; quavering.

Fingers grope and clutch at liberation's figments.

"W-waha, ah, it's- it hurts so _much_!"

"No, no, no. It only _hurts_ -"

"Too much! It hurts too much!" Yowling and heaving; breathless and mad. Yes, yes, it's simple _beauty_. An inarticulable perfection in this. In her wheeling shuddering eyes; in the tears that boil up, up, up.

Tongue swollen and half-numb. Language is ordeal, isn't it?

"I can't imagine _that_ being true. Only from _this_?" Brandishing it now.

There is calm.

Silence but for breath dragged down in humongous delirious gasps. It's to know the madness in our own body's defects, in the addled bleary junk-stained delectation in hyperventilation.

 _Ah, ah, ah._

Her lips, her lips, that sumptuous mouth's cradling clutching embrace, _hungering_ , dragging fingers, two, three, deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

The coils tremble.

There is a delicious serpentine symmetry in this while the asp is dragged down, down, down; while the fingers dagger _up_.

While they're splayed out, twisting, undulating, rippling, _raking_ at every inch. While her body is mine; while this captivity has become an act of possession.

There is an immanence that torments us, that _tortures_ us. Races through her and laces through the flesh; it becomes mine, and mine becomes hers. The boundaries in meat and bone have begun to dissolve.

A hand gropes at the gathered cables.

A pull.

Her screams are my answer. Her neck's fine swanlike grace bloated now in its tendons' brutal relief, in the sinews that _wail_ for liberation. There is only one word.

 _Please_.

"P-please, please, please, Porto-"

"No, no, _no_ , Shiho. No. Not. Until. You. _Cooperate_." With the ropes' terrible groan; with the cables' satiny _bite_ into her flesh. They are fangs, tearing, ripping, flaying. Raw ruby stripes coalesce along the thighs and the biceps.

And there are others.

Mischievous.

Creeping closer, closer, closer to _my_ wrist; to the fingers that pour through her with a cyanide syrup grace.

"N-n-no-"

"Then you won't have your mercy, will you, Shiho?" There is a plea in the eyes.

 _More. More. More!_

Please.

Please.

And so it is fulfilled. Another yank; another tug; another jerk. The twinned serpents converge, pour together, and now, now, they're creasing up, _up_ , into the delta hot and scalding and sumptuous and tropical between her thighs.

It is an irresistible imagery. It is camp, yes; it is romance novel schlock. I don't care. This geography captures the imagination, _enchants_ the senses. Its gravity drags the lips down, down, down over tits tormented and ruby-kissed with electricity's savage lashes.

And my tongue, also, wending and maundering over her tits' succulent modest weight, their fine upturned teardrop grace. Down, down, down; jabbed into her navel's lovely divot.

And more, and more, and more.

The fistful of serpents tugged.

Cranked.

And the screams rise higher, and higher, and higher. Their pitches are a choir, howling, tortured. The cables narrow, and narrow, and narrow, and finally, finally, there is the first _kiss_. Their first coalescing cunnilingus elegance in jute, gnashing and _biting_ into those lips. Raw; red.

Sticky and stained and livid and inflamed and there is a tension, a hot swollen fervor that's more a likeness of poor, poor Hei- _wan_ 's fuck-meat in the instant when it can't aspire to _anything_ like restraint. Like any man's, any boy's. A perfect delirious _delicious_ hunger; even without the meagrest kiss of moisture, it would shimmer with a lacquered lubricated insanity.

Pleading.

Esurient.

And there is a kiss. My lips, savoring the jute in its sleek grace.

"A-ah, ah, n-n-no, no, don't do that. Don't; stop touching me. Don't... Don't touch me _there_. Please, please, Porto; don't do that. Don't do it. Anything but that." With her eyes' plea for _more_.

It can be tasted in your sight.

Craning down, immense and wild.

"Oh, you're _sure_? What a delectable little hypocrite you are, aren't you, Shiho? 'cause _these_ lips are definitely more candid. I should reward them with a kiss. They're raw. They're _begging_ for more. I can feel it.

"I can _smell_ it." Wafting up into the nostrils.

Painting themselves over every sense.

Their scent is lust. Is a man's rot and something treacly and delirious and it's more than merely _familiar_. It's to know memory's condensed faceted perfection, hardened into its absolutes in planes and shapes and angles.

A kiss.

The first.

Slowly, slowly, oh so slowly. Lips upon lips; a perpendicular caress. Syrupy, patient, plodding, the ears _adorned_ with it. Wet and squelching and sputtering; it is not only the lips but the mouth, your tongue, heat wreathing _everything_. Lave her with wet velvet frenzy. It's more than a kiss now.

It's an act of psychosis. It's a berserker's charge. Spear and gouge and tear and tug and twist; lace up, _up_ , between the lips that are simply peeled apart with the rope's groping violences. Know the strain that sets deeper, deeper, sets into them, tears them open.

Breath has melted down into a simple act of desperation.

Dragged through the lungs; sucked down in huge convulsive ragged rasping gouts.

 _P-please, n-no..._

 _No..._

 _More._

 _No._

 _More._

Punctuation distends; reality rears up in the language's malleable boundaries.

No.

More.

I want more more more more more.

Dagger deeper, deeper, and the electricity is more dazzling than anything the asp could summon. It rears up, races, laces, _sprays_ through the body.

It boils the blood.

"N-nang... Nng... S-stop, stop, stop, stop it! Stop it! Porto, stop it! D-don't do this! Don't do this!" But the eyes are entranced, _shackled_ to this as surely as the body's every ambition. The thighs shudder; there is a strain gathering, painted in the flesh flaring up around the biting rope.

The flesh dimples, yields more deliciously than even the stockings' cinching seams.

"A-ah, ah, it's..." It's to know her _now_. Now, now, now. Fingers, three, four, they will savor the body's _quiescence_. That hunger mouth peeled open; sumptuous skin; spongy flesh.

"No, no, no, stop it, stop, stop it, Porto! Stop! S-st..."

Stop.

Don't stop.

"Don't. Don't. Don't. Don't."

Stop.

Don't stop.

Tongue dragged up, up, up along the pearl that's no trivial cowering Rotkäppchen. The veil has simply been displaced.

It _flares_ into a relief hotter, higher, huger than any language could capture.

Kissed.

Dappled.

An elegance in multitasking; everything invested in her but the ears. They will know only the quails and coos and cries and there's an ineluctable relentless _violence_ in the body that knows only its own sumptuous atavistic wisdoms.

There is no resistance at all.

"Ah- hah- haaaaah!" A scream; a screech; a _howl_.

And it's arcing from her. Knowing the spasms, the palpitations, the fundamentally _male_ act of impersonation in this candid sexual psychosis. It only can _be_ this. It is not the male; it is not the female. The physicalities, the biological realities, what purchase could they aspire to claim on _this_?

On the trembling flesh.

On its clamoring, its simple fundamental _immanent_ wisdoms, a possession, a carnal divinity raw raucous roaring howling ravaging rampaging through all and everything at once. To know boundaries shouldered aside; to know the reality battered and pummeled and pulverized.

Stone becomes dust.

Wood becomes ash.

Water is steam.

It is to heave and shudder and there is a knowledge, deep, deep, deep, _somewhere_ , something something _anything_ should explode out.

It should not lie merely in that endless Möbius cradled between the thighs, gorging itself upon itself with Ouroboros frenzy. It should be externalized. At long long long last, yes, yes, _something_ should flare up.

Should stain the flesh.

Should _pour_ into your lover. Should stain them as surely as paint slopping across a canvas. So it is here. Spattering and slathering and smeared, dappling and adorning my left cheek, and my right. An urgent plea for glasses.

 _Again_.

Goggles.

Anything.

Pungent and raw and rich with a man's faint ammonia perfume; and it is something hotter and richer and more feminine still. Unctuous cables stain my lashes, gathering in great shimmering constellations that gorge themselves on the light flat and pallid and twisting prismatic through their lucent bulk.

They lace up, up, up through my hair's every _inch_.

It is nothing so trivial as a mere _spray_ ; no banal little facial. It's an explosive clutching abstract-expressionist artistry through the meat flaring and the blood boiling.

It's endless.

Without interruption.

Once and again and again and it's become a plateau, rearing up without relief, and for me, for me, it's the selfish selflessness in the sadist's ministrations. It's to know your jubilation, your body's groping cravings simply _inverted_ from hers.

Where Shiho's, where the masochist's flares out, so yours _implodes_.

It is their pain drunk down.

You are the vampire, and it is their raw urgent heaving torment, their _anguish_ , that invades you. You are painted in their grades, in their hues, in their tints and pigments. You become _them_ ; for this instant, it is no longer merely your sadism, your _aggressive_ algolagnia. The boundaries between flesh and flesh and spirit and spirit implode.

You are their pain.

They are yours.

Swallow it; and know more, more, more. The asp _jabbed_ against her lips, and it's spearing up, splintering into itself and itself again.

"W-waaah! Ah, ah, fuck, fuck, it hurts! It hurts so much, Porto! Make it stop! Goddammit, make it stop! You're killing me! You're killing my fucking _cunt_! Stop it! Stop it! Stop it, already!" No, no, no.

Not when _I_ am alight with it; not when its violences tear themselves, _drag_ themselves up up up with a slug's patient plodding exuberance through every nerve. I am invaded, also. I am occupied, also. It is my rivers that know the defilement; it is my boulevards that will drink down the jackboots' clomping symphony.

All is in stereo.

Tongue flailing and flitting and gloved fingers _splitting_ her apart. Tear and tug and twist and pull and simply impale. It would be delirium for her to fall, fall, fall, but this cannot be.

It is to know _her_.

Know the body in its urgent spasms; jerking against the cables.

Once.

Again.

It is for orgasm to burgeon from any trivial phenomenon, merely from the tangible, the corporeal, and to stain the celestial, to pollute and to _become_ the body, to wriggle through and possess the spirit. Its great wings ornamented with a demon's feathers, stained with the blood of fallen angels, they _cradle_.

Swallow and swaddle.

It is to know only the _body_ in its fullest neurology tinged and twisted and jerked and misshapen and simply _warped_ , forged upon a great anvil into that _perfection_.

There is no longer voice.

There is no longer language.

With her, with her, I will soar. Will take flight. And it will refuse to dim, to gutter, to falter, to flag.

It is not a candle gorging itself with this culture's frenzied self-immolation on its own flesh. It is to deny these ideals in absolutes, in physics, in the sciences that are our neuroses given guise. It is the infinite.

More.

And more.

She will soar.

 _I_ will soar.

Both of us will slip gravity's bonds.

The electricity dragged away; the muscles wilt; the body sags.

"O-oh, ah, ah, ahn, aaaah... It's- you're hurting me so much, Porto." There should be a comic book flourish, steam misting up from the tormented flesh, from the battered meat, from the boiling blood.

It does not.

The latex is firm and untarnished.

Her skin inflamed, and still, still, it is not bruised, not disfigured. Beautiful.

"Oh, I don't think so. But what do you think of the sunset, Shiho-"

"It's noon. It's _noon_. Or- or one. It's barely afternoon. There is no sunset." There's defiance, isn't there?

Fingers slackening around the ropes, but never the asp.

"There's no sunset; there's no sunset." Her rejection, her renunciation, it's such sublime idiocy, isn't it?

To know the body.

So so _so_ close.

Its plea.

"I guess I'll just need to persuade you a bit more, won't I, Shiho? Before I even start the _real_ interrogation. You just need to admit the truth. That's all. Don't you understand? It's about _trust_ , y'know, Shiho- _tan_." Slipping away from the crucifix while the body announces its own senseless figments.

"N-no, no, you don't hafta do this, all right, Porto-"

"Oh, but I _do_." There's really only _one_ possibility, isn't there, amongst the table's novel fixtures?

It is not steel.

It does not glint.

It does not implore with artful effulgence. Something sinuous, voluptuous, a long bloating figure that flares up to a great helmeted head, thick and straining and still as innocuous as a taxidermied cobra here.

Eased away from the table.

There is a breath; jaw clenched and thighs trembling while its root is _tucked_ between my legs. While the lips are split apart and its bulb is nurtured in hot wet waters, a night-blossoming orchid that throbs with a sudden impossible authenticity.

It blooms.

Already, already, pulsating with orgasm's strange and narcotic rhythm, its junk-fueled madness. Grinding up every artery, down every vein.

Begging.

Imploring.

"N-n-no fucking way! No! Get that thing away from me!" But there can only be an invitation to _more_ , again, again, adorning the face.

Her eyes' quiver.

Her lips' tremor.

"Really?" Taking hold of the cable again. A pull, a pull, a jerk, a tug, a strain, a spasm, and even the machinery is being challenged now in its very dimensions. The thighs split apart; the ankles still shackled to their purchase in the crucifix, but the _legs_ can be pulled, wrenched, twisted.

"N-nya! No, no, no!" Shiho's cheeks scarlet, darkening almost to a sunset perfection in indigo.

"Tell me it's such a _glorious_ sunset-"

"It's _one_ in the afternoon!" So there must be another pull, another, another.

An act almost of levitation while the heels in their slutty spearing height are still planted firmly on the floor. While she is rearing up, more, more, more, while the arms quiver, the elbows gelatin and the wrists water and what does it matter at all?

The thighs are perpendicular to the hips; the body is _splayed_ open.

Her lips peeled apart.

Knelt down now, and it's something almost gynecological, staring up into that lovely lurid yawning mouth.

"S-stop, stop, don't you _dare_. Don't you _dare_ use that fucking thing on me! You aren't- you _can't_ do that! I'm ordering you, Porto!" Oh, oh, oh, even in pantomime, how _inexpressibly_ sumptuous fear's intoxicating heady broth is.

Sloshing.

Spraying up.

Great breakers crashing over the brows.

Addling the mind.

"Don't do _what_?"

"D-don't even- don't even think about it, Porto!" Jaws quaking; lips snapping.

"Oh, perish the thought. But don't think about what, exactly? What shouldn't even _intrude_ upon my mind, much less darken my tongue?" Closer, and closer.

A tongue offers a bitch's kiss, sloppy slopping _crazed_ over that delicious soft wet pinkness.

Deeper.

Deeper.

"Ngn... N-no, no, stop it-"

"What shouldn't I be _thinking_ about, Shiho? C'mon. C'mon. Tell me. You're usually so _articulate_ ; such an elegant and eloquent and well-spoken little slut. So why don't you fucking _tell_ Porto what it is that's troubling you?"

"I- I just-"

"Tell me!" Rearing up now.

There is fury.

Violence in the knuckles.

Groping again at the rope. A tug, a twist, and while there is not an _inch_ that can be surrendered, there is still the sumptuous belief-beggaring delectation in the machinery's simple anguish. The soft machinery; the _hard_ , also.

Bone and meat and iron.

"A-ah, ah-"

"If you can't be even a little fucking _obedient_ , Shiho, you'll never survive this. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me, you worthless stupid fucking _slut_." And this is craved.

The supreme _anguish_ in this most precious quality impugned.

"You useless dim-witted _whore_. You might've persuaded everyone _else_ that you're just such a sublime mind, but you're only an idiot savant. And now? Now? You don't even have the _savant_ to rely on, Shiho. You're just an idiot."

Pull. More and more and more. The cheeks livid and lurid with a heat that no pain and no simple shame in the flesh can surpass _this_ affront.

"You really are, aren't you, Shiho- _chan_? Isn't that the reason you couldn't hack it with the Blacks? Isn't _that_ it? It's such an adorable bit of play-pretend conscience. But it was the _hours_ , wasn't it?" The cables' heavy gathered tendrils gathered in a palm now; the tension has died, but there is no mercy. It's not quite the knout, but it's near enough, isn't it?

"Isn't that it, Shiho- _tan_? C'mon, Shiho- _tan_. Even a word? Just submit to me, and everything will be over. A nice little kissy for your bruised lips, and I'll even _bathe_ you. Just admit what we _both_ know is true.

"And do you know _why_ it's true, Shiho- _taaaan_? 'cause I _say_ it is. 'cause Mistress Ruby Porto is _telling_ you it's the fucking truth! That's why!" This is tyranny's essence.

Persuasion can fail.

Coercion can fail.

Faltering in all other measures, there is only violence.

It is the fist.

The cudgel.

The lash.

It's _torn_ over her skin now. The ropes gathered in their stout wad, payed out further and further 'til it's an obliging length. And _snapped_ on the belly.

Drawn back and crashing over a shoulder.

Perfection in control.

Violence without _this_ quality is idiocy.

Is Mussolini, and not Stalin.

There _must_ be an exacting sense of discipline.

"Ngyaaaah!" Again, and again, and again, and language has melted from her. The flesh is not broken but only inflamed with the bruising huge stripes and strokes. Once and again and again and it isn't the bull whip's gratifying supersonic crack but only a dull thick _clump_.

Again.

Again.

Again.

"Now, tell me what it is I shouldn't even be thinking about, Shiho-slut! Tell me! Tell me fucking _now_!"

"Don't hurt me with your dildo! Don't rape me! Don't do it! I'll do anything if you don't do that! Don't rape me! Don't rape me!" Howling now. There are tears, because there can only be tears.

Because this is the dance.

This is fingers coiled together.

This is the essence of heavy soft breasts cradled in the lavish gowns, clasped oh so _scandalously_ against a partner's chest.

The scandillity of it all.

Yes.

Yes.

"Don't _rape_ you? Oh, I'd _never_ do that." Cooing, syrupy from my lips.

The surplus rope slipping from slackened fingers with a sharp little _crunch_ on the floor.

"Oh, that's what you were worried about, Shiho? _That's_ what was plaguing you?" Fingers gathered under her chin, urging up the eyes to greet mine.

Adored.

Cradled.

"I could _never_ rape you, Shiho- _tan_. You're so _neurotic_. Rape. Rape. What an _idea_. I'm not a _degenerate_ , you know." Kiss her.

Kiss her.

Lips fall upon hers; her breath becomes _mine_ , swallowed down into the lungs.

Know your chest's heaving _profane_ hugeness, inflamed with it.

"You can't rape a whore, after all-"

"N-no, no, no!" And there is the renewed terror.

"Oh, you sold yourself a _very_ long time ago, Shiho- _cunt_. That's what you are, isn't it? You're just a hole to be filled. First? With money. Now? It's with _cock_. Girl-cock; boy-meat. What does it even fucking _matter_?

"Open wide, honey. I think you're _more_ than drenched enough. With jizz. With _you_. Sopping; sloppy. Fucking perverse, aren't you, Shiho- _cunt_?" And it's poised there with the hips' twist.

With the body's quirk.

With mine.

With hers.

"N-no, no, no!" It's an exhortation in the denial.

There's only one answer, isn't there?

The tears are authentic, huge burbling smears that spill down the cheeks, that stain her in the scarlet's prismatic quirk.

The shadow envelops the body; _swallows_ you. You are no longer even _you_.

What's your name?

 _Who_ are you?

Ran?

That name hasn't been even _tinged_ with meaning now for...

Ah.

Ha ha.

The time?

You see, don't you? The time has melted off into the hot protean mist, also?

 _Everything_ has vanished.

The thick plump head cradled in a hand; another clamped against her belly. There is the first slap, and the second, and the third, rearing up, up, up over the tormented flesh. There is a hand drawn back now.

 _Crash_ on her cheek.

"You pathetic delusional fucking _whore_. To think I could ever _rape_ you? Please. Consent is already _given_ , ain't it, Shiho- _tan_? When you're in a place like this? You only have _yourself_ to blame. It's not that bullshit.

"Not _asking for it_. I'm not blaming your clothes. I'm not blaming your drink. I'm not blaming your blood-alcohol. I'm not blaming your slutty mascara. I'm not talking about your sexy heels or your nasty latex ensemble.

"The truth is that. I. Am. Blaming. _You_." Every word punctuated with the palm's quick pummeling stripe over her cheeks. Left and right; left and right; left and right; right and left. _Because_. The other hand just...

 _Caresses_.

It's a sublimity in that prepackaged surrogate sensation. It is honey draped on cucumber, because there are no melons for _me_.

Ah, well, you understand.

 _Brushed_ , _**ground**_ , over those nasty splayed lips, torn apart with the ropes' biting fervor. Fingers _clenched_ around the tapering flesh beneath the broad helmeted head, that beveled elegance in sleek tight convolutions, in contours that could only be wrought with the words better-living-through-chemistry.

And still, still, they're there.

A stroke.

A pump.

"I wonder if a whore like you is even _deserving_ of my body. You're already _dripping_ other men's cum. Why do you deserve a _woman_ 's lust?" But there can be no resistance.

It's to know enchantment. It's obsession. It's an...

An act of channeling. It is impersonation as surely as inviting the mystic to become the departed at a feast with the dead.

It is...

It is another time; another age; another _experience_. His body. Yes. Yes. It is somatic memex as cannibalism; it is to eat, and eat, and eat. It is...

It is the blue-eyed corruption _drunk_ deep.

Swallow him.

 _Eat_ him.

Hate him. Ritually. Flagellate him 'til the flesh is flayed from the bone. Gorge yourself on him. On the lust that still stains _her_ as surely as the instant that there was less straying and more a stray dog's reflexes, its simple idiot _compulsions_.

Stroke it.

Once.

Twice.

There's...

Madness.

It must be _something_ impossible; it is programmatic, mechanistic. It is not the extemporaneous quality in human hunger, in the wet messy disorderly compulsions.

But isn't neurology simply electronic, also?

Where does the disparity lie? Is it only in your _conviction_?

Once.

And again.

"A-ah... Oh, oh, _fuck_ , Shiho, it'll be _immense_. The lust inside me; _bubbling_ through me. A load that could probably fill a fucking cement mixer. I know it won't close _your_ nasty cunt-"

"W-why're you doing this, Porto? Please! Please, don't hurt me!" Because this is her will, her wish, her _craving_. Her lust and clamoring.

"Ah... It'd be so _gratifying_ to paint those delectable lips with it; to admire it drooling down your thighs' delicious soft geometry. That _roundness_. But, well, it's not nearly so rewarding. Oh, oh, I _know_ it isn't. The onanistic is...

"Is its own exotic passion, maybe. But it ain't the moment's."

"Noooo!" Warbling, wailing. Tears in their great effulgent sheet over her cheeks. They inflame the flesh.

Is it the man's corruption? Is it to know the system reordering itself in its implacable entropy churning from every _whisper_ 's feedback?

What _is_ this?

I am the tyrant, aren't I?

This is my reign.

Why am _I_ being conquered, also, in turn?

"Shiho. Shiho. I can't resist it when I'm confronted with- with this _beauty_." Kiss her, and kiss her, and there is only an implacable lashing urgency. It's the knout driven over _my_ spine; it's to know the blood in its great slopping bulk sliding slipping spilling over every inch.

 _Impale_ her with a quick lunge.

Her cervix tasted in an instant; that delectable pair of lips, forbidden, _forbidding_ , a neck that will not be ruptured, that cannot be.

"A-aah, no, no, don't do it. T-take it out! Take it out of me, Porto! I- I'll forgive you for thi-hi-hisss! Just take it out!" Pleading, wailing. Bawling now.

It would be any scrupulous soul's _terror_.

The pantomime in its authenticity is sensuality's sharp shock, a wire bared not with delicacy but gnawed with an iron beast's hungering fangs, split apart and still spattering coruscating with mad manic electron mayhem. Dragged over every nerve.

Anyone would flinch from it.

Am I no one, then?

Ah.

I am Odysseus, of course.

I am _weary_ of being Noble Penelope.

I wait for him, and I am applauded.

He does not wait, and songs are sung of him.

Skewer her.

Again.

Again.

Know the body's rock and heave and shudder and it is a palm clamped on her belly, slithering down, down, down through the sweat that pools in vast cohesive _curtains_ like damp silk over the body. It sloughs away and is rejuvenated in an instant.

Pumping.

Heaving myself against her.

Hips slap together with a violence that unfurls, spreads out its great shoulders like wavelets lapping at a distant shoreline with an atom bomb's blast.

Its infernal ruby will levitate on its own brutalities.

Up.

Again.

Again.

Hammering, slapping, wet, _brutal_.

Her fingers strain and clutch and clench and finally, finally, it is the dying spider's essence, _closing_ upon themselves. Fingertips spear into palms, curtained and sheltered in figments of security with the latex.

Pull.

Tug.

The asp has been abandoned.

 _Everything_ has been forgotten. There is only flesh. Fingers lace up around her neck; it isn't even to throttle but only to squeeze. The past is a triviality; the future, also. It is to carve this sainted _immediacy_ away from its bracketing temporal embrace.

Only to race through her.

Hammer into her body. It's nothing like the strange protean kiss in a man's ass. It's heavy, hot, luscious, a sticky delirium that's the essence of the summer's stagnant swelter. It's to be in that apartment with mom and dad.

It's to sprawl back over your futon before there is even a mattress; it's to know the cicadas' merciless shrill _ree-ree-ree_ , the _ **aloneness**_ that is not even loneliness. The heat that bakes; the creeping shadows distending with long dark-chocolate fingers over the floor while the foliage's few fanciful cosmetic morsels rustle with an unfelt breeze, shivering and sighing.

It's for your hands to taste _epiphany_.

So precocious.

A five-year-old, and there's still that knowledge. It isn't anything defined; it's nothing _explicit_. There isn't even orgasm in its spattering discrete violence. It isn't yet to have known the crushing weight in expectation.

To be the _adorable_ girl. And the violent one.

But you must compromise.

You cannot also be the ostentatiously cerebral one, right? That's the _man's_ prerogative. But then, then, this is not known.

Mommy is the ideal.

The _model_.

The archetype.

She is my prototype.

I will surpass her.

Fingers _tear_ into Shiho's neck; cinch around the carotid and the jugular and slacken again; know the terror in the thumb _crunching_ into her trachea before it will admit breath again.

A succulent symmetry, her pussy's crush relentless, merciless.

It's orgasm and not at all.

It's...

It's so close.

So so _so_ close.

The urgency and the succulent immediacy while your body wends like a tongue through an overripe peach. Maul and gnaw and hunger.

There are orgasms spattering like fireworks between my thighs, clawing their brutal effulgent passage up up up through every inch, stitching into every nerve, raking at every vein and every artery is _bloating_ with boiling blood, but it isn't...

Isn't _that_.

Programmatic or otherwise.

"Ah. Ah. Ah. Fucking you is just _delicious_ , Shiho. The- the girls who say _no_ are always the sweetest, you know-"

"You're a fucking _monster_ , Porto. Porto!" Clenching.

Crushing.

Crunching around me.

Because this is the dance.

Because once, once...

Ah, ah, I shouldn't scandalize you.

I'd rather not be one of _Those People_.

Ah. But that's all right. Once, once, and not because it's Shiho, but only because she is a warm body, once, once, it would be so lovely _not_ to slacken your fingers around her neck. To know the thrashing urgent _authenticity_ in the total purified terror.

The wheezing pleas.

The _Ran, Ran, Jesus Christ, stop it, you fuckin' crazy bitch! I'm serious! I'm serious!_

And not stop.

Not something, well, let's not ruin our tea party with the word _necrophilia_.

Not a thrill-killing.

But just... Fear.

Real fear that hasn't been bought.

But that wouldn't be very polite, would it?

No.

It's just a fantasy.

It bleeds down like a name that's as meaningless as any other; settles between my thighs. Snaps with its sticky and intoxicating electricity.

A pump.

Hurled into her.

More more more more more.

While the tears plume up.

While there's...

While there is _this_.

"I'm gonna come inside you. You're going to feel my body flare up; you'll _taste_ every fucking _drop_ filling your belly, Shiho- _tan_. We'll see if a woman can get another pregnant. I wonder if you'll love it, getting _fat_ from my lust.

"I'll rape you _much_ much _**much**_ more, though. Don't worry. Don't worry. Don't you fucking _worry_. I hate fat bitches. But a _pregnant_ woman, my, _that_ would be quite the, ah, _large_ notch on my bedpost, wouldn't it? Your tits would be _so_ delicious.

"Swollen with milk." Battering her now. A palm _swung_ at a cheek with a tortured heavy _crack_.

And it's here.

It's here.

"Don't come inside me! Don't! Don't! I'll do anything! I'll let you do anything else! I'll suck you; I'll let you come in my mouth! In my throat! On my face-"

"Let's not delude ourselves, Shiho- _tan_. We're just _starting_. We'll wander to the bukkake course _soon enough_. But not only _this_. Maybe I should invite my friends to paint you, too. A _lovely_ group bonding exercise." Yes yes yes.

Crunching around me.

A man would be amputated _very_ exotically.

"Nooo!" Her scream is the last _kick_ and it's to know gravity's impotent embrace while you tumble over the ledge, wheel into the endless black abyss.

I am there.

It's heat.

Electricity.

Flaring.

Swollen.

 _Spraying_ into her; her every inch lacquered, slathered, _painted_. More and more and more and it's to pump and lunge and pummel and it's to know even your gloved palms _roaring_ with protest while she's slapped and pounded and beaten over every fucking inch and...

"Well, Shiho- _tan_?" While it's _dragged_ out of her with theater, with grandiosity; with a production that unfurls cum in a satiny hot thread narrowing and finally simply _spattering_ down in a great bead that melts off again into a creamy twinkling pool on the floor beneath her, joined with a glut, a fucking _deluge_.

Pattering like alabaster rain.

"Isn't the sunset _beautiful_? Or are you ready for a little more persuasion?"

Admiring the tear-drooling eyes.

The madness there.

We will order our system.

It will _recoil_ from this unnatural compulsion.

"Well, Shiho?"

"T-the sunset, it's-"

It's a rattle.

A chime.

A fucking _telephone_.

"Ah, Ran?" And it's... Not fair. It's that _name_ spoken; it's the name that is something almost programmatic. You are no longer _you_. The spell is broken. The lips pursed; contrite.

"Shit, Shiho-"

"N-not Shiho, 'kay?" Imploring. The pain is not a figment.

The lust is not. And still, still...

"That's the Doctor, and, ah... You know I can't refuse a call from him. Do you mind getting it for me? And, um, letting me out of these?"

It would be so lovely, wouldn't it?

While she beseeches.

Just...

To _push_.

Once.

Again.

"I don't know, Haibara- _chan_." Closer again. The lips _hunger_. "Tell him you didn't _notice_." Kiss her. Once; long and lingering and sticky. And it's poised there. "I want to fuck again. I don't mind if it's only Ran- _chan_ and Ai- _chan_. I want you.

"Your heat. I want to _melt_ into you again. And- and I'd like you to tell me about the cum inside you. The Doctor's and... Whose, exactly?"

Is that anxiety in the eyes?

While that ravening bloating thing is poised so so _so_ close.

"I- I can't, Ran- _chan_. I promised him I'd be available. We- we've got dinner tonight, you know. Date night?"

"You arranged _this_ -"

"It gets him off like you can't _believe_ to know I'm playing around with you." With taut belly quavering; with her bruises already coalescing. "I think it's...

"I don't know. Is it fair to call _his_ fetish sick about seeing my bruises when _I'm_ the one coming my brains out getting them?"

Who fuckin' _cares_?

"Tell me about the cum." Snatching up the cellular from a table.

Because it _must_ be there.

Chirruping again.

"It's- it's nothin'. It's just-"

"Are you sleeping with another guy?"

"N-no way. He'd freak out about _that_. He doesn't mind if I play with girls, but- but a guy? That'd be a seriously huge and... And _extreme_ thing."

"Doesn't he fuck other women?"

"See? It's fair." How sanguine they are. "He doesn't screw other guys-"

"That's unfair. Women are beautiful; men are... Are _men_." The cellular cradled in a palm. "Here, Haibara." A brush on the _connect_ key.

"Ah, you've kind of... Of gotten silicone all over it-"

" _Cope_. I'm not taking off my gloves just to put them on again for your fucking cell."

"Ah, h-hey, Doc." And it's a chirrup, a _coo_. Ingratiating and adorable and... And _normality_ 's sonic essence. It's a fist in your gut. "Yeah, I... Well, you _did_ kind of interrupt my session with _Mistress Orchid_.

"But, ah- oh, so _that's_ why you called? It's that urgent, huh? No. No. I'll- I'll be there. I mean, um, _after_ I've showered. You don't... Well, I'm kind of _filled_ with fake cum and sweat and... I am _not_ getting on the train like that." Cooing and giggling and it's a perversion. It's Man and Woman.

It isn't the appropriate animus.

It's...

It's the bride easing into her dress for the evening.

It's the facile _quirk_ in the lips.

"No, no, _no_ , Agasa- _taan_. You're such a degenerate. You really are. Who'd _ever_ let you around children? You should be locked up or put on _some_ kind of list. Who _cares_ if I'm over thirty? I _look_ like I'm a _lot_ less than that, right?

" _Exactly_. So, ah... Let me go, and _I'll_ come and see you. Sure thing, honey. Oh, don't be jealous. Ran says _hi_."

" _Fuck off_." A mutter that barely crests the lips.

"Sure thing, honey. _Baaaaai_." Nauseating. Simply nauseating. "He's so _cute_ , right?"

"Won't you let me, Ai- _chan_? Not as Mistress Orchid-"

"I _can't_."

"Tell me whose cum it is. And, ah... You and the Doctor really don't have that arrangement?"

"No way." So fucking _emphatic_. "I mean, he said he... He'd _think_ about it if I _really_ met a guy that... That I thought would be a nice addition. I could bring him home for dinner; Agasa- _chan_ would vet him.

"He's at least _open_ to the idea. But probably not. I don't really like boys that much."

"Who does?"

"You. Kinda?" It's imprecation; it's wickedness. It is not absolutely without truth; only truth without context.

"No. Only making them sob."

"Ayumi?" It's beseeching, Haibara clutching at purchase on _anything_.

"Ayumi would fuck a _cactus_ if it had a pretty face and a big enough prick." There is...

Obedience.

Unfastening her wrists' fetters.

And it is to know her bowing quick elegance; her nimble tight sleekly muscled ease.

Ankles no longer shackled; ropes slackened.

"Wow, you went _crazy_. I- it was amazing."

And there are fingers _tangled_ in her hair; for a moment, for a fleeting _instant_ , it is no longer polite teatime conversation.

 _Maul_ her lips.

"Isn't the sunset beautiful?"

"I want to say, _Yes_." It isn't only a game; it is not only our waltz.


	5. Entropie

There is something artful in it. There is a will to deny this, you understand. It is a fundamentally contrarian compulsion. It is a craving to shrug away the fantastical phantasmagorical excesses, the idiot extravagances, the Culture War psychoses. The strikes and the counterstrokes and the deft flitting pirouettes in passionately ignorant fantasy amongst those that've never even _tasted_ its caress.

But it is true. In the production. While the music pounds and pummels through the soul's stereo; while there's a merciless sawing acid-rock frenzy, a noise-metal sizzling without anything like restraint, without even the tiniest _glint_ of interest in the juxtaposition that isn't, in the duality that can't be. It's to know the lighter's greasy flame coaxed into being with a thumb's quick rasp over the flint, once, twice, thrice, again and again and again. The sodden syrupy fire that springs into being perfumed with oil in its exoticism. Naphtha.

Naphtha. Naphtha. That's what it is, isn't it? I am cradling something _diabolic_ in a palm, immaculately balanced with a whimsical indifference to the irresistible self-immolation, even in trivial measures, in the tiniest gradations. It is half of napalm's essence; it is _half_ of that sumptuous formula.

Naphtha and palmitic acid salts. This is, of course, not the novel cocktail sluicing over the Vietnamese girl scrabbling away from a temple, bare, skin exposed, _charred_ while the camera throbs with its merciless hungry eye and the fire rears up in great time-weathered color-corrected gobbets over the horizon, while the jungle flares carnation.

That is Napalm B.

Napalm Bravo.

Napalm Beta.

 _Super Napalm_.

This is Original Recipe Napalm. Napalm Classic. And the military, ours, America's, anyone's, they will slither away with a weasel's graceful muscle-tube sinuousness from anything like moral culpability with facile circumlocution. Ah!

It isn't napalm at all.

Please, do not speak with the candid Marine general, _It ain't a good way to go_. That is not _napalm_. It is jellied incendiary agent that is splashing through the bunkers, slithering in merciless effulgent smears along the gun pits.

It is not napalm.

It is _jet fuel_ , you understand, and not gasoline.

Ah! A precious distinction.

The flame kisses a spoon outstretched, gurgling with a quick and quivering burble. The froth is something pungent and sharp in its fragrance.

It is a sharp _snap_ at the nostrils.

And there is something deeper, heavier, hotter. _Cloying_. There is an awareness of transmutation, of the pallid powder's dissolution into a creamy churn, burbling with only its cruder essence. It is a wish not for the berserker frenzy in the speedball but only a purified waking somnolence in the junk's lovely soft caresses. Its purity is its own convenience.

Its purity is its own poison. It is a premium. Yes, yes, it can really only _be_. But there is no paucity of this banal little increment in worth sainted above all else. Thousand, millions, billions, what can it even aspire to matter? It is everything.

And it is nothing at all. Nothing, nothing, nothing. The works opened across a kitchen table littered with domesticity's tedious morsels. A tea cup; its pungent broth pricks up through the nostrils, scythes through even the junk in its gathering perfumes.

It is something nebulous, ineffable.

Perhaps psychosomatic. Perhaps there _is_ no scent at all; no, no, _no_ aroma. Nothing that imagination could supply.

Or perhaps it is not. It is for the tie-up to _bite_ into the left biceps. It is to know the vein's surrender. Not the addict's needled fanaticism; not the flesh's retreat, anguished and imploring relief from the junk disease, the _defilement_ in cells warped and twisted, shackled and _subjugated_ to the chemistry's alchemy.

It is only...

Desire.

It isn't the familiar refrain, _Ah, ah, I can go without!_

I can.

I will not.

I can.

I will.

I can.

But this is not the moment. It is for the sunset to slop through the window, to puddle around your feet, to know bare toes' graceful strain and _grope_ at the tatami underfoot. It is melancholia. This is the word. To breathe deep your collective wisdoms and not merely to know life's supreme futility but to _mourn_ this.

At last, not to know the soul's language in laughter, but to grope at the spirit's reserves, and to find only an IOU.

For the ladle to rattle only at the thick tortured bottom. To know the fundamental disappointment in this, in this instant's psychic anguish, its _cafard_. A rarefied morsel of Gallic affectation; delectable in its simple sumptuous forthrightness. Its untranslatable sublimity. Its elemental elegance. It lies beside _Bushido_ , as companion to _vlast_ , to _Schadenfreude_ , as wickedly abused as it is.

It should never be approximated; never stained in the elemental defects, our simple cognitive _shortcomings_. It is only as it is.

And it is cafard.

It is to know the junk's burbling, the spoon caressed, and it's to be _transfixed_. An act of obsession, of chemical fanaticism, an alchemical fundamentalism. It is to know _this_. To taste its aromas slathered on the palate.

And it is stilled. The finest junk and morphine, also, dappling those hard edges with a feathery perfection. The needle's graceful caress; its plunger's clutching suctioning hunger. Its creamy broth is eased up, up, up into syringe's cradling chill. It will simply lurk, a stillness.

A _lingering_ upon this. Its artistry. The delicacy, aching, exacting, a sensual sense of painterly grace, the needle's dewy luster brushed along a joint daubed with alcohol's brittle sharp tang. Once, and again, and...

And there is pain.

The first _prick_.

It is not sexual; it is a sensuousness that transcends and fails before that ideal's delectation. It is another universe. It is not a surrogate; it is not a challenger. For the addict, yes, yes, for the junkie, there is ultimately no ambition of comparison. It is to juxtapose a dim lamp against a fucking supernova.

There can be no _expectation_ of this.

But this is not life's dimensions for _this_ addiction, for this obsession. One fanaticism cannot surpass another. It is to know only a novelty's intrusion; it is forever unique. An uninterrupted joy-bang perfection.

Blood dragged up in a fragile thin scarlet ribbon tugged through neural madness' serum. It is fuel for a biologic machinery that is not _misfiring_ but only trundling, rattling, _convulsing_ in accordance with its own reasoning.

Its own exotic wisdoms.

It is to _taste_ this; the flesh yielding and the blood dragged up, up, up. And again. There's a sudden implacable obsession. To _fill_ the barrel; to admire the artillery cannon grace bloated with my life's essence. And for the plunger to be hammered down, quick, untroubled.

For the syringe to yield a patient discreet little _rap_ on the table.

The tie-up slackened and only...

Only _tranquility_. It is a delirium that is perhaps an invitation to addiction. This is a point that denies secondhand empathy; it is to _reject_ any meager ambition of articulation to those that have never savored its strange enchantment. It is its own rarefied sorcery; it is its own wicked compartmentalized wisdoms. The joy-bang delirium could perhaps, prodded, urged, _invited_ , yield its own fervor, its relentless wheeling Möbius fanaticism, not merely joyless but _apart_ from this word.

For a new normality to coalesce in the blood. For the junk to steep so _deeply_ into the cells that it is no longer a disparity in the mitochondrial DNA but this heroine named heroin. The elegance in its conquest, in its tyranny, an Empress invited into the flesh's own palace. The play-pretend wisdoms and reasons in their prosaic bourgeois selfishness jettisoned.

There are gradations in junk-madness.

In junkiedom.

There are those that will hawk their television and whore their children.

There are those whose lips will scribe a patient smile while the flesh _lathers_ with this wicked implacable cruelty in self-abnegation, and who will obligingly shuffle through the supermarket checkout lane, who will peer with polite robotic affectation at the vacuous motes and morsels in consumer banalities.

Who will still slump back into their upright calfskin seats and the tongue will loll out, the universe _melt_ around them while the junk scribes its mesmeric poetry through the flesh, tattoos itself in that resurrected _normality_ upon the malleable mind.

And then there is merely _this_.

It is not junk-fever.

It is not junk-sickness relieved.

It is the eternal joy-bang. It is the inviolate magic in the flesh's resilience. It is to know the simple truth: That the cells _cannot_ be overtaken with this. That one metabolic malady cannot displace another.

The elemental reality is that addiction is a marginal malady. It is not even a roulette; it is not a mechanistic quality in the flesh as certain as the diseases' dreadful tumble through the tissue and flesh and bone.

It is not a blood-poison; it is not a venom. It is...

It is _this_.

It is binary and absolute. You will, or you will not.

You must, or you must not.

Eyes glance up at the ceiling; wheel to and fro and admire the walls in their tremor. It isn't a psychedelic through-the-looking-glass transmutation. It is not for the world to be transfigured into great warped canting constellations of unreal variegated flowers, glorious grandiose orchids unfurling with petals outstretched crested with tenors in their terrible song warbling _Inagaddadavida_ in demented serrated tongues.

It is a _quirk_.

A _twist_.

It would be sublime, would it not? To succumb to these delirious and febrile things?

For the bath to melt down into a malarial swamp.

For the mosquitoes to be strange wriggling furred tubes, undulating and slaloming across the floor, jaws wrenched open in Escher elegance to liberate themselves and themselves and themselves again in their terrible warbling multitudes.

But it isn't.

It is to sit here.

To peer at the wall, and to know not even serenity, and not some exalted normality, but only... Only a deeper _awareness_ of reality.

It is not the flesh's and the mind's boundaries twisted out beyond horizons that efface themselves in their immensity. It is not ayahuasca's affectations. I am not steeping in DMT, in the unreality in something banned, _banished_ from polite society, that is endogenous to the meat, to the bone, to the _soul_. I am not Ayumi.

It is not cresting great waves of one's own creation, churned with the mind's own hurricane, rearing up along an ocean wrought from one's own spirit. It is already to know this. To appreciate the fundamental Descartes _narcissism_ in this.

I am.

And thus I am.

And even if this world in its tangible dimensions is indeed this, there is no more meaning, and no less, than it being a fabrication, an existentialist nightmare wrought in my own insoluble loneliness. Because I am lonely.

I am alone, also.

But I am lonely.

It's...

It's to snatch up a joint; for the paper to bloat dewy between the lips.

A lighter speaks. Barks.

Sparks.

The fragrance stains your nostrils.

Because we are all polite.

Because, ultimately, _all_ is little more than pretension, than affectation. The ideal named _face_. Whether kittens are being fed through paper shredders or orphans are being dismembered with jovial relish or the junk burbles in some sainted spiritual gruel or there is enough grass to open a fucking baseball stadium is meaningless.

It is normality's conviction.

But I am abnormal.

The height.

The eyes.

The proportions.

Long, lush, lavish, succulent. A porno manga refugee.

The hair is a concession to this, and it is an act of defiance, also, in its voluptuous _immensity_ , spilling sweat-perfumed over shoulders still sinewy and firm with strength, even while they're draped in the sensual sexual _softness_ that is carnality's essence.

The hips' quirk.

A tee-shirt shrugged away.

Jeans cast off into memory.

It is the dance.

Yes.

In these moments, there is _only_ the dance. There _is_ ; there must only be. Ultimately, what otherwise can the life even aspire to accommodate? There is order; and order is an invitation to a deeper chaos, to an entropy that roars deep from basal evolutionary places.

The nightmare beasts huddled in the psyche's bowels, alienated from our comfortable fictive scholastic absolutes in ego and id and superego and every other Freudian fucking _fraud_ , the superstitious prescientific idiocies that were grandfathered in at Reason's true dawn, and not only the fever-dream twilight that still admits staining Eurofetishistic mysticism in legends and myths and dreams' interpretation.

It is perhaps a supreme fortune for goats and sheep and human sacrifice that Freud was not a visceral augury enthusiast.

It is something _elemental_ ; something apart from this figment, this constructed absolute, named culture. It _is_. Lurking deep; deeper than deep. Boiling up, up, up with brutal raking talons. A figure as primeval as the great beast whose fur bristles, matted with blood, thick with venom, the fangs a cold cruel scythe wreathed with steam pluming rotten with your father's blackened meat; as _imperishable_ as the probes shit out into space's endless abyss, a hope and a promise, a mischievous admission of the human race's hopelessness, a _plea_ not for liberation from the infinite intelligences lurking in the universe's endless sprawl 'til heat death, entropy's greatest consummation, will _crush_ us together again in a grandiose collision, but only a wish that our finest ideals will persevere without idols and para-para and rap and politicians and consumer idiocy.

It should perhaps be self-evident to the civilizations that will ultimately embrace these novel figments of our self-professed ideal that what is not spoken is more precious than what is.

We will not be believed.

Would we believe them?

Throb and tremble. This is the blood's fury, its fervor, its _frenzy_ while the junk enamels itself sluggish and sticky over every inch. It is the essence of jogging with three vodka shots; it is drunken boxing. It is not for the faculties to flag but only to be comfortably _indifferent_ to the pain's urgent brutal sharp pangs.

It is to wheel and twist and pirouette; it is for the mirror's quicksilver lies in geometry's authenticities to be cast away. Not ignorance, and not wisdom, but only for this binary to melt away, to slough from the body like a moulting serpent. I am become this bare trembling thing, straining, quivering, with flesh _pared_ to its modestest _sheath_. It is perhaps something more mechanistic now.

The soft-machinery divested of its tiniest pretension of aesthetic grace. It is muscle now. It is to be a weasel, thrashing and wriggling and writhing through the undergrowth with brutal snapping jaws. To be the tiger whose paws pad and whisper furtive and with an elegance wrought not in design and not in conscious grace but only an evolutionary sublime, the machinery refined, simplicity as an ideal preserved and upheld and embellished without even the fainest glint of an interest in the irony, in the simple paradox in this.

With fangs gouging through steel; with jaws reducing bone to little more than brittle dried twigs in a fucking hydraulic press.

Yes.

It is to gnash.

Snap.

It is to _eat_. To fall to your knees and know the sublime in this atavism.

In this _sacrilege_. It is Ayumi's sacrilege. It is an act of profanity against her selfless gospel, and there is nothing but a simple _bliss_ in this. While knees tremble and the flesh _riots_ with sensations real and illusory.

While music chimes from fantasy so great and so delirious and so _huge_ that reality is little more than the most trivial little prickle in delusion's cohesive cellulose grace. There is nothing _digital_ here; nothing persistent, absolute, something anything _everything_ without lapse, without failure, without _subjectivity_ in in its constellations of ones and zeros, its perfected binaries where vicissitude and gradation are only faults to devastate the system's artificial absolutes.

It is to know the _analogue_. I am meat; the meat-machinery. There is a grammar here, a vernacular in the flesh, and...

And it is to be the poet without words, without language. Without fucking _paper_. Fingers find only dead desiccated flesh.

Ah!

You will thunder home, and the refrigerator door is jerked open, and while there is the familiar chill, the fundamental geometry that you should taste, there is nothing of the flesh and the vegetation in its lavish perfection. It is to peer with a dark-eyed woe at the despair in mist cradling only the abyss. Drag a beer from the fridge.

The _real_ one. Not the...

The metaphorical.

Ah.

Because my _tangible_ refrigerator is full.

Deep, dude.

So deep.

The material can be rejuvenated, can be coddled, can be aggrandized. But the spiritual cannot simply be resurrected, cannot merely be _restored_ to its perfection with a jaunt to the market. There is a beer. Snapped open with a sharp urgent _gasp_ in carbonation. The planet's most sumptuous piss-and-ash symphony in flavor's pirouette and wheel over a tongue lolling out like a dog.

The _diet_ , ah, ah, that poisonous ideal, the _perfection_ courted and coveted in the flesh, in this act not of futility in the body, because it is _not_ a futile enterprise. The meat is machinery, also, and not merely in the metaphysical. It will obligingly shed its fat; it will, divested of the appropriate gears and cogs, warp and twist itself into the coveted guise.

But this is perhaps another's ideal.

Ah!

It is unfair. That fate has kissed the flesh, the tissues, with this sainted ideal. With the porno manga allure in the legs' vertiginous length; with an effortlessly taut belly; with the breasts that fall heavy, plump, quivering in their upturned marshmallow elegances. With the face's sharp geometries; with the jaw's grace, the cheeks' simple tight allure. The huge eyes still ineffably _vulpine_ in their dark enchantment; their impossible and unreal hues in violet. But still, still, there they are.

It is to know only the incredulous stares.

The fundamental alienation in being _this_.

Ah!

How unfair it is for me.

Laughter, please. Thank you. I'll be here 'til I'm dead.

Even then.

Exceptionalism's own desolation. It isn't the self-pity in this; it's only the simple _reality_. To be apart from everyone. _Not_ one of the bell-curve beauties in their prosaic height; not to be amongst the ranks of office ladies, salarymen, any of the familiar clichés. It is for your universe to be strictured in this, also, with expectation's geometries, with preconception's geographies.

It is to know possibility's narrowing. It's to _taste_ the judgment in the eyes.

It is not merely jealousy.

It is not simply envy.

It is the idiocy in charts wrought from media-peddled and culturally-molded expectation being perused; it is for entries to be made, to be written without consultation.

It is to know the fictive order in _man's_ universe.

I am not a man.

I will _never_ be a man.

Fingers laced around the beer; tasting the chill in its sour recession into tepid ruin. Dragged down, down, down.

And once again.

And again.

And it is the junk and three beers and it is one of the vodka bottles snapped open without fanfare. It is something _banal_ ; something prosaic. Cheap. Shit. Cheap. Shit. It is not Polish, and not Russian, and wrought from grain and not potato and it will _still_ fuck you up, because it is poison.

It is _all_ poison. And I am not fucked up.

Happiness is a warm gun. A torch song cradled in my breast. It is summertime, or perhaps spring, and, yes, my daddy is rich, and my mama is good-lookin'; they are both lovely. They are both deeply and irremediably pathetic.

They are both liars and hypocrites.

It has _forever_ been known.

It is only tasted in its most devastating geometries now. It is to know the perversion in the pageantry, in the pretension. Staggering now through the apartment, the humble constellation of walls and floors that is not quite Ayumi's sentimental efficiency, but the _mansion_ is nothing that merits the name. There is not a rap at the door. Crane with chest bare and brazen and bronzed now with the sun's dappling caresses through the door and it is _her_ home.

Ah, ah, Kaede- _chan_.

Her husband and his drunk dull-eyed philandering. To _savor_ the eyes' idiot hunger; the polarized reasoning in clutching at... At _what_? Is it even beauty, the allure in youth, in novelty? Or is it a structured _manufactured_ sense of obligation, a peddled imagery that would heave him into some wretched clawing hostess' caress, cradling the jaws, stroking the salaryman's stubble in tribute to an economy that would sew its largesse alone in these bland faceless drones, these yowling senseless beasts wrought in self-important figments of competition between tortoises?

It is all _shit_.

Everything is shit.

And his eyes are blind to Kaede- _chan_ 's; and his stare is for _this_ flesh.

Because I am not stamped with the word _Wife_.

Because there is youth's kiss, perhaps, but there is something deeper than this. The door eased open; not barefoot but with toes and soles tucked into kitten-heeled sandals. And there is nothing otherwise. There is a _wheel_ into the sunset's steeping swelter.

A sense of awe that this would ever kiss _his_ flesh.

Is it not his obligation to accentuate his fealty as a noble committed vassal with fictive self-flagellation in time, with the untranslatable sublime in karōshi. Overwork death. Not in actual _productivity_.

In time.

Meaningless trite tiresome _time_. The heels yield a sharp quick rattle on the concrete. He is not a handsome man; he is not an ugly man. He is merely a man.

Ah!

Yes, yes, the fundamental misandry in all of this. But it is true. Men are _deserving_ of hatred. They have dwelt in sainted ideal, sheltered and sacral, for this race's history, but for perhaps the matriarchal wickedness in the sacrificial obsidian blade, the stone dagger, creasing the boy virgin-sacrifice's neck.

But it is a rarefied thing, you understand.

And in this time, what has been fulfilled?

What progress has been tasted?

The cellular telephone is our faith.

Materialism is our saint.

The television is the family's shrine.

Men are a waste.

Are a burden.

I taste a vision of a time when this will be admitted. When it will not only be The Woman of The House, but the abortionist's fingers will be swift and immediate and _absolute_ when the genes cohere into this wickedness. I taste a vision of a future when there will be a reflection upon The Dreadful Past, an age when the Y chromosome was something to be known in its expression and not merely museum exhibits where Schwarzenegger films heave beside sexual assault statistics.

Where _idiocy_ has finally been, well, not vanquished. Let us not be delusional.

And there shall be war. Women will wage war, also, with implacable violence. It will not be war over limp-wristed caricature; a sneering affront at the Arabian Empress' shawl will not heave aloft ballistic missiles on pillars of golden fire.

It will be for riches.

But at least it will be _our_ riches.

He is not handsome; he is not ugly. There is a fundamental biologic _defect_ lurking in the mind, perhaps. A blindness of the breed that will cast all blacks or whites or yellows or reds or brown as _all looking alike_. But for the few rarefied glorious Titans, they All Look Alike. All of you penis-swingers, I'm sorry, but I cannot quite distinguish between you. Doubly so the studied penguin homogeneity in their thick-framed spectacles and their ridiculous black suits and starched white shirts and black ties, forever celebrating their own lives' funeral with dolorous self-abnegation.

It is an Amish funeral.

I am sorry if I know too little about the Amish to judge this. But a gray and buttoned-down people will not be those to devise the N'awlins jazz funeral. There will not be garrulous music to announce your passage from this austere world into another, where perhaps you will finally slacken your collar and raise barns only on _Thursday_.

I aspire to a world where there are seventy-eight beauties awaiting me, and none of them is a virgin. They are all quite experienced, their fingers long and sleek and nimble, and the nails are well-trimmed and immaculately beveled and _smoothed_. Where their tongues can unfurl like a golden retriever's to dig _deep_.

Where their bodies are as malleable as putty in my hands, to be cast as the moment's whim craves. Their legs will be long and luscious; their breasts will be very large or very modest; their eyes will _roil_ with lust for me.

Their minds will be brutal and honed and it will be endless enterprise to compete, also.

They will jeer at me in my ignorance. There will be libraries in their vast multitudes; there will be wisdom to be pored over when I am not pouring myself over them.

"Suzuki- _san_." The name is cyanide syrup on my lips; it is sweet, oh so sweet, and it is wicked, also. It is poisonous.

It will be venom.

There is only a _nakedness_ ; an untroubled and unpretentious candor in the body. There is no shame in this. Where is this shame to be found in your own meat, your own skin, your own bone? It is only hide and blood.

I am tanned.

"A-ah, holy shit. Mōri- _san_." The universe does not narrow further and further and further into a sensual sticky warp between your thighs, in the rarefied elegance in that flesh, those pert plump thickly defined lips bared now, divested of the hair's most trivial _kiss_.

Without the censor's sanctimonious figments.

We will obliterate beauty in human form, lest society's minds be corrupted.

The octopus whose tentacle is being jabbed into this form, however, will never defile.

The cum in vast pungent rivers liberated to sluice over the cheeks seamed in anguish, play-pretend or otherwise, is probity embodied.

Our country is depraved.

"Hi, Suzuki- _san_." Closer, and closer, and closer.

There is not _daddy's_ strength in this.

The indelible; the manga-perfect superhuman in the stout shoulders, the heavy chest, the muscular perfection that _should_ not be, should not persevere with a liquid diet, with a dissoluteness that would awe Eugene Onegin. A hunger for pussy; a zeal for whiskey and beer.

And there is a corruption in this.

It is perhaps a metabolic disease, wrought deeper than merely the psychic. It is perhaps genetic. It is a native distrust of a man that does _not_ chase pussy with a bloodhound's frenzy; it is a sense of exasperation with the herbivores that do not feast upon excess and effusion and betray every human ideal.

It is to admire lions or tigers politely sipping tea from fine china and murmuring about stocks while monocled eyes flit down to study the business pages or the box scores.

Men are...

Are _basal_ things.

Primitive.

Brutish.

Daddy is every girl's original sin, her corruption. And it is mom that could only have _nurtured_ this. A stern jab to the belly; a knife _raked_ over his cheek. Just once. Palm clamped on his belly in a drunk; the blade whispering down, down, down.

 _Listen to me, Kogorō. I've had enough._

But there was _not_ this.

It is weakness in strength. It is the yin-yang essence in this duality, this juxtaposition.

And it is to know now with age and experience and not youth and naïvete that there was never a hope for anything _but_ this. It is mom's fundamental arrogance, her garrulous misandry, her _desire_ that men consummate this, also.

Was it grandpa?

What _is_ this existential disease that perpetuates itself as a psychic virus, generation after generation after generation?

The blue-eyed _liar_ whose flesh's ruin is coveted more deeply than anything. And whose face still inflicts itself in what the mind steeping in its own heady drunken delirium persuades itself is _desire_ invading dreams that should be swallowed alone with waking lusts.

It is not fair.

It is habituation, as surely as the pornography fetishist still perhaps cannot disentangle the monitor's cold glint from lust's stirring between the thighs.

It is a failure of imagination, because it is _easy_. Because humanity is still an animal, and the animal is still a lazy fucking _nothing_. Hate. Hate. Hate. There is an awareness that you are _drowning_ in this heady psychosis. This elementary loathing.

I _hate_ him.

I hate _men_.

Do not enroll me in the Andrea Dworkin academy, because it is not this. It is a hatred that transcends any trivial publicity-groping lust. It is not structural; it is not with a belief that men can be domesticated, can be better _transfigured_ into a convenient and happy and productive incarnation.

I will build camps, if given power.

They will plume with smoke perfumed with charred meat.

Perhaps.

Perhaps not.

Perhaps it will not be possible when the moment arrives to pull _that_ trigger.

Perhaps the trigger has already _been_ pulled.

It is not the blue-eyed liar's fault.

It is his fault. Not exclusively.

It is not daddy's fault. Not exclusively.

It is...

His eyes are entranced.

"A-ah, Mōri- _san_ , are- are you okay?" Such _chivalry_.

"Of course." There is sweat.

The junk probably _plumes_ in the heat in supersaturated _refined_ opium. There is a treacly aroma in its passionate chemistries.

In its succulent alchemies.

"I'm _perfectly_ fine." Wheel, and cavort. To know the long long legs' quick lunge along the concrete gallery. "Why? Does there seem to be something the matter?"

"Y-you're- you're..." _Nekkid_.

Yeah.

Nude.

Bare-assed.

I am a Gentileschi ideal, am I not?

I am not perhaps Gentileschi as the muse.

I am...

I am Shoshanna.

I am Bathsheba.

I am _hungry_.

Yes.

His stammering is a child's.

Worse than a child's. A child will giggle; a child will be awed; a child's huge eyes will simply admit the reality, without context that adults' corroded minds in their delusion would persuade themselves is maturity.

To reject the truth for want of our cultural imprimatur.

"Mmm? What's the matter, Suzuki- _san_? Oh, is Kaede- _san_ in?" What even _is_ your name, you banal fucking salaryman?

It's...

Something.

Right?

Suzuki- _san_. That's your name. The ridiculous tie; the _stink_ in stale sweat and booze, also. The clock's tyrannical hands betray that it is nine or so.

"You're home so much earlier than you usually are, aren't you, Suzuki- _san_? You know, when daddy would come home _this_ early," ah, ah, and now we are slipping into the Faulknerian, or perhaps Williams.

But I am not a decrepit Suthuhn aristocrat.

I am not Blanche DuBois.

"Well, it was when he left his wallet at home and he couldn't drink on his legends anymore, or he didn't have even a _single_ yen for booze. Which is it for you? Mmm... Is that...?" A _breath_.

Wafting the stale perfume deep into the nostrils.

Painting your sinuses with the rank cigarette smoke.

"Is it possible that one of the hostess bars threw you out?"

"W-what do you want, R-R-Ran- _san_?"

"Ran- _san_ now? Aren't we intimate?" It is to twist and whirl around him.

An achingly elegant dance.

Men are _neurotic_ in a taller woman's presence.

It is not merely an inch or so; it cannot be comfortably banished with facile murmuring about heels.

It is probably _six_ inches.

It is for your fingers with the supremest ease to tease the shoulders.

"I don't think that's very _respectful_ , Suzuki- _san_. I'll be candid. I don't know what your fucking name is. I don't really _care_. It's very... Mmm... I have a question for you, Suzuki- _san_." Fingers _tear_ into the jacket now; there is a sharp cinching _bite_ in the hands' grasp.

"W-what're you doing-"

"I'm going to fuck you. Duh." A _whisper_ over the cheek; dewy heat like the Congo's collective swelter _rakes_ at the nape of the neck. "Your hair's starting to gray. It's salt-and-pepper; _very_ , oh, daddy-fetish _chic_." A kiss brushed over the crown. "You don't _hate_ taller girls, do you?

"You're, oh, bell-curve height."

"F-fuck me-" Incredulity.

"That's _right_." I am also incredulous.

But this is the body's command. It is a clamoring for fuck-meat; it is a lust that is being most _conveniently_ sated now. Our culture's faith is urban apathy. Doors rattle open on the lower floor, and there is nothing like anxiety's tiniest _pang_.

"But you need to answer a question for me, Suzuki- _san_. Well, two. One? What the _hell_ is your name? Junichiro? Sasuke? Yuki? I, ah, I have _no_ fucking idea."

"Kenta." It's heavy, thick in the throat.

" _Keeenta_. Mmm. It's..." Banal.

Average.

He is the ideal.

"Good _boy_." They are animals.

Well, _we_ are animals.

Collectively, this is our essence. A biologic simplicity; it is an exercise in neurological call-and-response; it is reflexive, irresistible, _ineluctable_. But the species' male is more pathetic still. Its neurology is simpler, is _more_ forthright. There is a tension in the flesh, a movement in the pants. The slacks are no longer Victorian shelter from the hunger that is tucked in their embrace.

Fingers _splay_ over the shoulders.

"Kenta. Kenta. Mmm. Mmm." Lingering upon these syllables in their collision. "Kenta, would you care to kiss me?"

"W-wha-"

"Oh, it's so _adorable_. You'll drag a hostess down by the hair on your cock, but _how_ many of 'em have you even kissed?" Fingers tug, pluck, pull, _urge_. An awareness of the legs, and the hips, and the _body_ in their irresistible twist.

Eyes peering _up_ into mine.

"W-what're you talking about, Ran- _san_ -"

"Ran- _san_? Uh-uh- _uh_. Bad little boy. My name is _Ran_. And it ain't _Mōri- **san**_. 's for damn sure. Do you know who Mōri- _san_ is? That would be my fucking _dad_. I hate that name; it's an affliction. It's an accursed thing.

" _I_ is an accursed thing when it's tethered to a _him_. So kiss me. I'd like to know how well you kiss. I _do_ love glasses, you know." Fingers whisper over the stubble-kissed cheeks.

There is testosterone's _glint_.

It can be intuited. And alone this. It is not strength declaimed in heavy sinewy violences; it is not daddy's arms, his chest. The scarlet-stained _perversion_ in it. It is nothing Freudian; it is not Electra's fanaticism.

It is not ideal, and it is not mythical beauty. It is only the cold neutral objectivity denied the Westermarck Effect. It is perhaps...

There is a word that ricochets without meaning.

That reverberates as flat psychological dogmatic gunfire.

 _Sociopathy_.

 _Psychopathy_.

Does it matter, ultimately, if fingers pluck at carnal sinews if the fingers find little ordeal to easing a knife through a man's throat, in gouging open a woman's belly and _kissing_ with sensual immediacy the viscera?

No.

No.

It is to know _daddy_ as one of masculine sexuality's bookends. The corruption in his rutting with mom; not the _what are you doing to my mommy?_ horror the blue-eyed liar conveyed in his chest-clutching idiocy but only...

Normality.

Flesh in its strange geometries.

A wisdom that men and women simply _bleed_ into a cohesive being, into some strange colony creature Medusa. Two become one; heads and fingers and lips and _that_ , melting into mommy. Poised at the door, peering at them in their contortions, sprawled and splayed, to know even her recriminations, eyes closed, _I hate you so much. I'm not doing this for you, Kogorō. I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing this because I had a shitty day and I want to get off. Don't think we're finished with our fight, you pig._

The flesh will collide.

Writhing; heaving; convulsive.

Long long legs still curtained in the stockings' gauzy fabric shivering with the _violence_ pluming between them; an inkling of silhouette, of his simple presence. Her chest heavy and soft and trembling with a quick bouncing cadence, ground against his hips and rising up and _crashing_ down again like a stricken bird.

The invective.

The _hatred_.

 _You fucking **swine**. I can smell the pussy on you. I hope I don't get any nasty diseases from you. If I do, I'll kill you, Kogorō. I'll kill you and take Ran. It'd be better for her, anyway._

The simple brutality.

The fangs bared.

 _Knifing_ into his neck.

Spine arching, and... And there will be a moment, an unreal moment, when there will be a glimpse of the stray kitten that had finally matured with time's passage into a cat. Poised on the windowsill, peering from the window into an alley, and there had been something like a flirtation in time's passage. A hand outstretched.

 _C'mere, c'mere, kitty. C'mon, kitty._

A palm offered.

Semi-stray; it was not a feral demoness in bristling fur and ungrateful fangs _snapping_ into your wrist. A purr thrumming through the satiny bathed body; a fragrance not of rot but only lavender. It was not a pet; it was not a menace.

And still, still, there was perhaps a sense of symmetry in childhood's passage. In a glimpse of the obsidian figure, its eyes lambent in after-school twilight, peering up at me from the alley.

But not _one_ evening.

A yowl.

A squall.

A _shriek_.

The simple revulsion in _this_.

"They were mating, you know, Kenta- _san_." And it is to know his body. Something... So so _so_ strange. It is for bodies to fall together.

"W-what're you talking about, Ran- _san_ -"

" _Ran_. Don't use honorifics with me, Kenta- _san_. _You_ are the old man; I'm not." Pull, and tug, and it's to know the tie's satiny fabric under your fingers. The tatami grating at your knees, hammering into his old man's back.

Daddy was...

 _Will never_ be this.

He will die.

Something sudden and violent and crushing. A brutal binary; he will be, and then he will not. His isn't to invite _aging_.

"A-ah, all right, Ran. Ran." Peering up at me with that numb dim dulled crude ragged idiot _hunger_.

"Your wife knows you're a pig, you know, Kenta. She _haaates_ you." Cooing it down at him with tongue lolling out.

"W-wha-"

"Of _course_. You are, aren't'cha? You're human swine. You're _garbage_." Fingers pluck, pull, grope.

"W-what the fuck're you talking about?" With immense and incredulous eyes.

"Oh, don't be _upset_ , Kenta- _tan_." My spine scribes a demented heaving arch; tits fall down, down, down, delight with their generous fat's tremor and quake. "All men are garbage in _some_ measure; you're just more than...

"Well, you _are_ Japanese. It's our culture, y'know. Just like Americans. Just like Canadians. Just like Germans. And French. And Italians. And British and... Oh, shit, we'll be here the _whole_ day. Y'know what? All men. You're all pigs.

"But it's _our_ fault. We let you out of the sty, don't we? We countenance your _crap_." Pluck, and pull, and pull, and pluck.

Tie unfastened; _grope_ at the shirt, buttons liberated with a quick popping silence. The chest is curtained in a gauzy undershirt translucent with sweat; the flesh is bare, bereft of _anything_ like the archetypal Bond-Connery carpet.

Nothing at all.

"You _are_ quite the Japanese, aren't'cha, Kenta- _tan_? Look at this _hairless_ chest. Your body's all right, I guess-"

"You're- you're way different than I thought, Ran." With his tongue lolling out in idiot numb hunger. A fucking _slug_.

"Oh? Is that so, Kenta- _tan_?"

"I- I thought you were so straitlaced-"

"Straitlaced? I'm _hungry_ , you fuck. Listen to _me_ , Kenta- _kun_. I want to bang you like a fuckin' kettledrum. That's _it_. I don't care about you. You're a walking piece of _meat_. If your son could get it up, I'd use _him_ instead." There is rage, wrath. "'kay? So shut your fucking mouth, you piece of subhuman _garbage_."

Now, _now_ , there is outrage.

"W-what? I- I'm fucking leaving, you cunt. No one talks to me like that-"

"No one talks to a stuttering piece of shit like that? Is that _so_?" And now, well, how can you not? It is to know the _claws_ bristling from your fingers.

Raked at a cheek.

Raw.

Red.

Huge furrowed stripes.

"You fucking _cunt_! I- I'm gonna hit you!" With a hand upraised.

"Good. The best love leaves bruises." So it is an arm drawn back; it is a palm _clamped_ on his chest. It's your weight _falling_ , crunching down, not the concrete-melting brutality that, well, will _very_ deftly end the evening.

Just to shut up the little whore.

A _crack_ on his jaw; fingers twist around the pathetic little paw brandished at me.

"W-what the fuck-"

"Oh, look at _that_. I said I wanted _meat_ ; I'm _hungry_. I'm a goddamn carnivore, and you're just a herbivore, Kenta- _kun_. I didn't even know your _name_. I was National Champion Karate- _ka_ for three fucking _years_.

"If it hadn't been for, ah, _other_ obligations, I would've competed in the Olympics. And you have the temerity to raise your hand at _me_?" So there is a swift _slap_ at the left cheek, and then the right.

Incredulity in the eyes.

"Oh, lookit _that_. You're just so fuckin' cute, aren't you, Kenta- _kun_? I like that name for you. Did you get laid a _lot_ in high school? Or were you one of those pathetic nerds that did _nothing_ but study their textbooks?

"B'lieve me, it's not that I hate _intellect_. I love it. But rote repetition ain't _intellect_. It's... Well, let me _think_. When I was studying for the entrance exams to Todai, one passage was, _Blank was a blank in Classical Greece, who blank_.

"Tell me. Is that anything but an invitation to stream-of-consciousness nonsense? It ain't _education_. It ain't even _edumacation_. It's horseshit. It's all horseshit. It's all _meaningless_. Did you get laid?

"Yea or nay?" Another slap; and another. "Oh, lookit _that_." Hips ground against the lump straining up through his pants, and...

It hasn't slackened.

"It looks like _someone_ has discovered a bit of algolagnia, huh?" Leering, cooing. "Oh, don't _weep_ , little boy."

"L-let me go. Let me _go_." Whimpering now.

"Mmm... Oh, that's so _cute_." Palm cradling the stubble-stippled cheeks. "That's just _so_ adorable. Did you know about our country's charming national custom? Bridal kidnapping? It's not really commonplace _now_.

"But I think you can still see its expression in the _bliss_ with which men rape women. Take them; however you wish, just take them. Fuck 'em. Who cares, right? It's their fault, isn't it? Their families'?

"Mmm... Would _you_ just let go of a woman if she _willingly_ went with you, slipped off her clothes, ground on your cock and then just said, _No_? Would you? Would you?" There's only quietude.

A dim _dumb_ quietude.

"Good. Fucking. _Answer_. 'cause I know what the answer is." A fist drawn back, once, and again. "Y'know, a woman just _isn't_ very pretty when she's smeared with her own blood. But a _man_? It's quite the _rugged_ look." Crunching on the nostrils; battering at the jaw. "I _love_ it when my lovers bleed.

"I can't really do it that often. Hardcore masochists are just... _Such_ a rarefied demographic, y'know? This algolagnia is delicious. And _you_ are still like fucking Fuji- _san_." Rearing up and fall back; once and again and again.

Pummeling his chest.

There is not yet the bones' serenade in their collective failure.

It's an act of control, of restraint. Self-inflicted.

Patience and disciplined.

"C'mon. C'mon. I'm going to rise; _you're_ going to wriggle out of your slacks. And if you even _imagine_ anything else, well, you _do_ know what happens to bitches who fight back, right?" Peer down at the pathetic little gastropod. "Of course you do.

"You know what happens. You _know_." Standing.

Barefoot and impatient on the tatami.

The fingers are numb, ungainly, the essence of a liquor-twisted tongue slurring its every ambition to language. The belt is a faint little chime; the zipper a quick rattle and clatter and it's, well, it's profoundly _average_. It does not coax awe into the heart.

"Oh, look at that adorable lil' thing. You know, I've seen daddy's. It's _colossal_ ; it's obvious why women regard him as irresistible. He's a moron. He is. But he's charming enough. He's _handsome_. His tongue could compete with Gene Simmons'.

"But it's the _cock_ , ain't it? It's always the cock. It's a disease. I'm not a virgin, you know, Kenta- _kun_." There is a polite and obliging _silence_. "Listen to you. I can only hear your adorable little _mewls_ ; the wet hot _sputter_ from the blood and snot in your nostrils." And it's true.

Groaning; gurgling.

But _that_ plump thing is pricking up, ha ha ha, oh so fucking _wry_ , very _**very**_ obediently.

A heel brushed over it.

And simply _hammered_ down now into his belly. The perfection in the accordion _crumple_ ; chest against knees for a transient flicker of an instant. A comic book flair, and it's still true.

"You piece of _shit_. Have you ever raped a woman before? And I'm _including_ just not listening to the word _no_."

There is no answer at all.

"You _garbage_. You won't even answer me. Well, you know what they say. Silence is consent; it's whatever your interlocutor _wishes_ for it to be." Crashing down, down, down.

Wheeling and tumbling and with fingers outstretched, groping at it.

The heat _flares_.

Swells.

It _fills_ you.

Pitching down without grace, and without delicacy, and without patience. Who fuckin' cares? It's mine, mine, mine, planted on your soles, and it's to _implode_ , down down down.

"Aaaah, that's... You _don't_ have any diseases, right?"

"N-n-no-"

"Let. Me. _Guess_. You haven't even _fucked_ another woman but Kaede- _san_ , right? Soapland and a bit of tug-and-jerk-and-suck does not qualify. You waste _everything_ on hostesses and overpriced cheap whores who won't even _fuck_ you, right?

"Right? Right? Right? Ah, ah, ah, this is the truth, right?" A cooing zeal; a profoundly _Chinese_ affect. "It is, it is. It is, it is. Right, honey?" Rear up and plunge down; once and again and... "You _do_ have a charming thickness, though." Reflecting on the dimensions.

On the instant-onset orgasm in _this_.

"It's... Ah, it's _very_ nice, isn't it? Don't you _dare_ come without my consent. You're my fuck-slut; that's all you are." The eyes are anguished, tormented.

There are rapists who will never _peer_ into their victims' eyes.

It is fear.

It is revulsion.

It is the elemental _self-loathing_ that fuels such a deed. Don't flinch away from the word, you fucking craven _shits_.

This is the word.

Rape.

Do not camouflage it.

Do not gorge yourself on facile circumlocution.

It is not _female-on-male rape_.

Ah, ah, it's every man's _fantasy_ , right? While the fist is _crunching_ on the jaw; while nails _tear_ into the chest?

Is this still your fantasy?

Rear up and fall down and...

"I'll _always_ accord my victim," and this is the word, also, "The simple _dignity_ in seeing my eyes when I'm forcing them. I'll _always_ grant them that. I'll always rape my bitches _right_ , you know, Kenta- _kun_? D'ya know how much boy-meat I've just...

"I've been _forced_ to take like this? This- this _abduction_ , this play-pretend groom kidnapping?" Writhe; sway.

Hips limn a soft sumptuous _wet_ wriggle and undulation.

A dance atop him.

Palms clutch at tits, heavy and succulent; they yield under groping fingers.

Nails _tear_ into my body.

His hands timid, trembling on his chest.

"Ah, ah, _ah_. Do you _know_? Ngn... High school boys; salarymen; those stupid fucking pathetic little punks who _persuade_ themselves they're carnivores? Please. _I_ am an authentic predator. I- ah, ah, I even raped a porn star once.

"I was _very_ disappointed with his stamina; couldn't even _keep_ it at half-mast, much less at a height to salute-"

"It- you..." Is this an _answer_? "Why're you doing this to me?"

"'cause it's fun. _Duh_." Bear down, once, and again, and again. "'cause it's... _Ah_! F-fuck, you made me come, honey. That was _nice_. Y-you... You have the _perfect_ length to just... Just _gouge_ at my spot, y'know? That _root_." Wriggling; shivering.

It flares up, _explodes_ into a crazed shuddering swarm of shards like fine French stained glass as a frag grenade.

"Oh... Oh, that's _very_ nice. It's- it's _fun_ to fuck someone who ain't willing. Girls are hotter and tighter; boys are victims of their own _anatomy_ , you know. Fight-or-flight hysteria; it's _epinephrine_ , norepinephrine. Just those- those demented churning sloshing _heaps_ of chemistry.

"A delirious broth. I can _smell_ the fear's reek on you. 's delicious. And... And I was telling you about my kitty, you know. Not _this_ ; not my _pussy_. That little kitten. She became an _adult_." Grind down now with a merciless clutching frenzy.

Coils _strain_ around him.

Grope.

Knead.

Gnash.

"I saw them, you know. My little kitty. I was so _proprietary_ about her; she wasn't mine. But I'd become _attached_. I hate cats otherwise. This kitty was _adorable_ , however. A puppy would've been lovelier, I'm sure, but...

"But I _saw_ them. Rutting in an alley. It was unreal. Their fur was bristling, like porcupine quills. Black; smeared in ink. Hissing and yowling and it was _repellent_ to me. And I understood. It was like seeing mommy and daddy.

"There's no fucking innocence in _anything_. I understood it. So _violently_. It- it was... It was _insane_ , staring at them. I just suddenly knew: All the ideals and mores are just- are _folktales_. They're figments.

"It's not that I lost my virginity _right_ after that with... Ah, _fuck_ , yeah." Again, again, great superheated talons _clawing_ up through every nerve. "After that. I- I did. I didn't _give_ it up like I would have, however.

"I just- I _wanted_ it. So I took it. I took it. It was _delectable_. Ah, ah, _ah_. My- my first time, I didn't even _bleed_. I didn't even _have_ a bit of meat there. It's all just... So fucking _stupid_. You dumbass boys _hoping_ there'll be that.

"A freshness seal. Ah, ah, but do _you_ have one of 'em? No, no, _no_!" And now, now, well...

It's not to crave a kiss.

I would _never_ squander a kiss on this piece of shit.

"No, you don't. You don't _need_ one. 'cause _you_ dictate lust's terms, its dimensions, its _geometries_. It's bullshit. You're not permitted that. We _surrender_ to it. We're afraid. We're afraid. We're pitiful meek creatures.

" _We've_ permitted ourselves to _devolve_. The- the _superior_ species, and we abdicate it 'cause of some pathetic metabolic disorder that _heaves_ us into shitting out new life from our bleeding wet meat. That's _it_.

"I don't have a goddamn maternal instinct. It isn't because I'm sterile. Oh, believe me, I _am_. A tubal ligation'll resolve _that_ very, very fucking fast. _One_ abortion is enough." Grind and knead and _gnash_.

Chewed with the muscles like velvet-draped iron in endless undulation around him.

"One abortion. One _liar_. One... Everything." Tear and tear and... "And I think the time has come for my little _bitch_ to finish." Fingers _twist_ around the neck; shaken like a pear tree whose fruit, overripe and bloating on the branches, should be liberated.

Should _splash_ and _splatter_ over the soil.

Not to be eaten.

Not with an investment in its worth.

Rancid.

Meaningless.

Just to admire the wreckage.

Warmth flares up into the cheeks.

 _It_ bloats, more and more and more, that coveted thickness. A simple wisdom, boys. _Girth_ , and not length. Length is an asset.

Stoutness more so.

"A-ah, ah, _ah_." Shouldn't we celebrate Abe Sada? Shouldn't we adulate her in word, and in deed, and simply in the _legend_ that has coalesced around this? Clenching, squeezing. Erotic asphyxiation.

Consensual or otherwise.

And still, still, there is the herbivore's meek _concession_.

Its surrender.

And...

And _nothing_.

It's to squeeze, clench, the lungs simply still, the body absolutely resolutely _numb_. And...

"Well, it _looks_ like I may _not_ be the planet's most fantastic lay, whore." Even while orgasm _roils_ up; even while the belly churns and shudders and...

And there is the _instant_ , that sumptuous moment, when the spirit is flayed from the body.

When the breath is not only stilled but _poisoned_ , defiling the lungs.

Clench around him.

Know the perfection that isn't rigor mortis, but simply the flesh's implacable _sternness_. Its fanaticism, its obsession, for this clutching frenzied _need_.

An outlet for the evolutionary programmatic idiocy.

"A-ah, ah, yes!" Rearing up; heave.

Fall down again.

And rise and fall and fall and rise and it's to know the legs' twist the strength in this absolute stillness.

And there is, well, _this_.

To dress.

Slip into the familiar elegances, skirt ruffled sartorial carnality rippling along the thighs; stockings an indispensable bit of self-indulgence, an act of wardrobe onanism. It is your own desire, your own bliss, taut and crisp and creamy in its juxtaposition against the burnished bronzed flesh.

A blouse tight and sleeveless, arms bared in their lean elegances.

High high heeled sandals, thongs cinched around the ankles.

Delicious.

"I'll see _you_ later, honey." A kiss offered to the Man of The... Well, not _hour_.

Fifteen minutes.

Twenty.

The sun has receded from its familiar flat blond smear as little more than painted backdrop for a concrete and glass and steel horizon. Sunset is a blaze, an infernal thing, dipping into purpling abysmal gloom that will never quite set, will never _coalesce_ into anything like darkness. It cannot be.

Ours is a nyctophobic culture, wrought in cowering terror of the shadows' stalk. It is to shrink away from the figments of vulnerability in this.

And still, still, the light's clarity, its supersaturated luster, the mirror's perfected truths with which it confronts us, this must be rejected.

We are chimerical things, shrinking away from both extremes, wrought only in our craving for a cool soothing serene gloom. We are children, ridiculous bestial horrors.

It is to know the streets in their antiseptic sprawl. Hyde is not Kabuki-cho; there is not Shinjuku's sublime vice, its supersaturated sleaze, fetishistic and regimented and something almost _industrial_ in its scope.

It is the simpleminded _busyness_ cult that wreathes our towns, our cities, our nations. The need to _be_ ; whatever this _being_ is, it must be duly consummated. It is pantomime, affectation, and ultimately, ultimately, in accordance with its own reasoning, it merely _is_. It is birthed in stardust and ambition, and it coalesces, coheres in form and guise and _heaves_ into being with science fiction horror's frenzied convulsions in the ribs' sharp sputter and the dreadful sordid apparition _squelching_ from the viscera.

It is conceived in its own fanaticisms, its own perversions.

It stalks, hungering, clutching, _groping_ for purchase on the soul.

There is a delirium here, admiring the figures in their strange textureless silhouettes. It is not that they are faceless; it is that their faces do not _matter_. These morsels of individuation have been abdicated, cast away in their groping plea for the elemental anonymity in the sprawl, in the great hungering bulk hurtling with implacable urgency to a destination that is not known, and for whom knowing is absolutely meaningless.

But there is a rush, a relentless raging plea for celerity, for haste.

There is a caterpillar whose bristling furred bulk bloats amongst their ranks, unseen, unrecognized, a self-conscious conspiracy in silent ignorance, vaster than a city bus; its thrumming satiny paws pummel and stroke and rap at the concrete. Its immense segmented flesh wheels and twists and vanishes into a store front promising phantasmagorical bits of plastic sex discuses sodden with fuchsia hungers for the knuckle-shuffling Olympians.

Eyes will be obligingly averted from the lurid esurience in the salarymen and the college students whose bowed faces and stooped shoulders betray their lust for prepackaged perversion.

The caterpillar is now a cockroach, an act of fanciful metamorphosis.

And I am staring at a mirror.

An unreality in this.

It is...

It is not glass.

Not quicksilver.

It is only flesh.

Flesh.

I am peering into the abyss, and the abyss is not even so fucking _polite_ that it'd stare back at me. I am not confronting my own philosophical reflection; it is not something _twisting_ away from the flesh and the meat and the bone, a dreadful shuffling heap of the psyche simply _prised_ from myself, given form and...

And adorned not in the familiar wardrobe but a figure of something almost painfully fucking _prosaic_. The hair is heavy, lavish, a thick lacquered auburn in delusions of the natural fanned over the shoulders, pitching down down down in a great avalanche to the curvaceous hips, the ass that could only be the familiar thickly cloven peach, and still, still, only _clasped_ in tight enameling denim.

A creamy tee-shirt and prosaic adorable girlish sandals and...

And her _eyes_.

Bare; not even a _glance_ at me. There cannot be. It's something profoundly and resolutely unreal to peer out into this universe that hasn't even the dignity of being a mirrored surreality.

She is not a demoness.

The junk still sloshes and churns through the veins, yes, but _this_ is not its guise. It is the essence of glimpsing a corpse, a bit of strange fruit, tumbling from a lamppost without anything like a _whisper_ from the throng, bloating in the swollen straining heat, the tongue rolling out, a terrible wriggling slug.

 _Hey, howyadoin'?_

How can none of you _notice_ this?

Fuck.

Fuck.

There is laughter. The... The _I_ there is not convulsive with it. The wrists and the elbows and the knees and the ankles and... And the simple _being_ is my flesh. And not quite. Leaner. Yes. _This_ is the word.

Sharper. Not quite the lavish admission of life's sensual sublimities. The proportions, willowy and alluring, they announce a surrender to the corruption named _diet_. Resolute and regimented and obsessive. It is the fleshly's renunciation.

It is not yet to have known Holofernes' hair greasy and lank and _clutched_ in your fingers while your maid's palms are slapped on the belly; while his body still is convulsive in a thrashing strain against the ineluctable.

It is still to be the meek quiescent beauty, not _knelt_ in blowjob repose but only genuflecting, only surrendering without comment, without complaint, indignation throbbing and bubbling and _seething_ deep in the gut and still without outlet's very ambition.

Yes.

It is to know the simple cowardice in this.

The fear that is another's eyes, alien, meaningless, _senseless_ , confronting you with a judgment that should find no purchase in the soul or the mind or the spirit and still, still, there is the fundamental terror in this.

The _revulsion_. The self-loathing that animates the body's convulsions, its terrible defiant pangs against itself.

The _craving_ for approval in the eyes that will never again see and will never again be seen.

She is not alone.

There is another silhouette. It must be, because it cannot dwell in this universe.

It is lean, lovely.

It is a confluence a _communion_ in the angular and sharp and vulpine and the doe-eyed and the sumptuous and the curvaceous, also. Constellations of hardnesses and roundnesses.

An impossibility.

It is...

"M-mom?" Yes, yes, the word is something irrepressible, irresistible. A _plume_ in verbiage fountaining from the lips.

A single word is preciouser than a soliloquy. There is nothing Shakespearean in this. It is to know the long long _long_ legs; the dazzling height and grace; the voluptuousness in the chest that is perhaps altogether _too_ fucking huge to admit reality in its ambit. The quick stalking gait; the heels, high high _brutal_ stilettos, rapping at the pavement.

You cannot shovel your jaw in its crushing bulk from the concrete's rasping crude embrace.

You will simply stare.

There is the need to hound.

To pursue.

Because this _cannot_ be.

Because mom's hair in its great sumptuous obsidian is... Is only a point of misapprehension. Because this camouflage for the Courtroom's Queen is self-evidently not _hers_. Because the glasses are merely coincidence, poised upon the nose's graceful bridge, sharp shimmering prismatic, gorging themselves on the effulgent neon spattering and sluicing and ricocheting through the streets and belching them up again and- and it _cannot_ be her.

Right?

It is perhaps...

Yes.

It must be.

The sainted ideal named A Bad Trip.

It is not anything that will gather your baggage and toss you into a stricken airliner destined for a one-way journey into infamy, but this does not matter.

Because our faith is cognitive dissonance.

Because our universe is predicated upon disbelief.

I must not believe.

I must...

Must not know the hands in their hunger. What? Laced, laced, _laced_ up through the not-I's hair, the auburn in its abundance. It is to race untroubled and furtive through the throng; to _stitch_ with an unobtrusive elegance through their bulk.

To take your time in a hurry. For your stare to be _welded_ to them.

It isn't possible.

For fingers to slip together.

For lips to _cradle_ lips.

Ah.

This is...

It is no longer something _unseemly_ , is it? No, no. The gawping befuddlement, the awe, the delirium, well, this is not quite urban apathy inverted but only a chest-clutching carnal atavism, a native intuitive _bliss_ in a glimpse of woman and woman in their hunger, their delectation, intertwined.

It is impossible.

There is a kiss.

Long and slow and sticky and syrupy and it is to know their perfection in communion. It is not Oedipal; this is an impossibility.

It is odium for daddy, yes, but it does not plume from a fervor for mom.

It is...

It is a palm clamped on my breast.

It is a squeeze, slowly, slowly, kneading, clutching, _groping_. It is something brazen; it is an ostentation that will heave you through the doors that have swept closed behind them. It is a grace, a _convenience_ in this fantastical corruption named a family restaurant.

It is...

Something.

The marquees are meaningless.

The sainted names and the brands in their trite stockholder-approved pageantry. It is to ward away the waitress' vapid fawning chirruping coo; it is perfunctory pleas for something meaningless, a simple rationale for your _being_ amidst the gardens of plastic foliage curtaining the tables in their cool serene groaning greenery and the machinery rasping and wheezing.

It is the sublime named the cappuccino bar.

There is no cappuccino to be tasted.

The palate is not enchanted with espresso's pungent pressure-kissed gasp.

There is nothing to _whisper_ of cafecito's delirium in its treacly novelties.

I do not care.

The waitress' sinuous legs cradled in fetishistic fabrics cannot entrance.

I am defiled with this madness. It is a fanaticism. It should be meaningless, shouldn't it?

It is destiny.

It is genetic certitude.

All is roulette.

Ultimately, ultimately, fate's shimmering token will settle more than once upon a single number. Should it not be self-evident? But it is the simple unreality in the universe not resolving itself into a predictable _perfected_ order with a blink.

With cutlery cradled in hand and jabbed at the meat.

With a knife's rasp at your elbow.

With a fork _pricking_ into a palm.

"Ah, pardon me, Miss? Are- are you all right? T-the cutlery isn't really meant to be used like that, you know, if- if you don't mind my saying, Customer- _san_?" Ah, ah, this _grandiose_ politesse.

She is pretty.

 _Supremely_ pretty. It is our fetishistic fervor for beauty, something elusive, impossible, the unattainable as surely distant as the moon's dark face with hands upraised to the neon-sodden sky. In everything.

In _everything_.

The stilted legs rearing up from thick black patent leather heels; the nebulously slutty maid- _chan_ elegances in obsidian fabrics curtaining curvaceous thighs, comfortably plump, lush, and there is a _fluffiness_ in the dimensions and proportions. The breasts' charitable flourish and even an inkling of softness in the belly.

The smile as authentic as a militarist's history of the Second World War.

The hair lacquered insectile black bobbed around her chin.

"Ah, was I troubling you, Yamato Nadeshiko- _chan_?" Squinting at the beauty.

"P-pardon me-"

"Well, you're a _great_ deal more voluptuous, aren't you?" The skirt something perfunctory.

More a grandiose belt than anything that merits the name. The blouse _smeared_ on tits flaring up up up with sumptuous delusions of modesty.

"Yours really isn't the archetypal _kimono_ body, is it? Well, beyond a porno manga, anyway. But, ah, was I perturbing you, Porno Nadeshiko- _san_?"

"M-my name is Noriko, Customer- _san_. If you're not going to order something, then... Then I think I'm in my right to ask you kindly to think about leaving. Maybe." This is stern conviction.

"If you'd like to toss me out on my ass, then you should be a _little_ more confident. You know, you _really_ are a fuckin' herbivore, aren't you, Porno Nadeshiko- _chan_?"

"W-what-"

"But that's fine. I _have_ ordered the cappuccino bar-"

"You're just sitting there!" It's a squeak.

It is not a bellow.

Not a roar.

"I've bought the seat. Haven't you ever visited Paris?"

"No." Heavy bristling quills fanned around her eyes scribe a long slow blink like continental drift.

Closed.

And opened.

"What does that have to do with anything, Customer- _san_ -"

"Orchidee. _That_ is my name. Not _Customer- **san**_. Please, _please_ , don't affront me with that condescending shit. Won't you be seated with me-"

"Ah, I- I can't, um-"

"You really _are_ beautiful, you know?" Regarding her now with lucid eyes. "Wow, you _are_ fantastically pretty. You should sit with me; just for a bit-"

"I really can't, ah, Customer-"

"Finish that sentence, and you _will_ not only be needing another career, but probably a breathing tube." There's a gasp.

A _squeak_.

"See? Aren't we polite? Sit your ass down; you're attracting unwanted attention." There is obedience.

Is a delectable little _quiver_ in the chest.

"Sports bra?" A brow quirked with mischievous zeal.

"Y-yes, Miss-"

"Orchidee."

"That's a strange name."

"It's German. Do you speak German?"

"No, Miss-"

" _Orchidee_." Emphatic; again, and again, and again. "My fucking name is _Orchidee_. Or it is this evening, anyway." A glance cast at the beauties in their impossible communion. The _perversion_ in this; in their elegances craning closer, closer, closer.

Shoulders in collision.

"W-what do you mean-"

"I'll pay you fifty thousand yen to be adorable and not speak unless you're asking me to nuzzle my tits and slaver over my thighs." There is silence. "Do you understand?"

"B-but you said you didn't want me to speak." Ah, ah, and _now_ there is obedience.

Because this word is incantation; because this conjuration is sainted perfection.

It is our ideal.

"I- um, d-do you mind if I ask you what you're doing here, ah... Oru... Ora... Orukid..." It is an ordeal, clutching, _groping_ at the alien syllables.

"Call me _Orchid_ , then."

"Orchid. 'kay. Um..." The voice is husky, heavy in its authenticities, plunging from a cooing sharp shrill little-girl keen, a slathering lathering indulgence for the intemperately pedophilic, to something like _humanity_.

Delicious.

"Yes?"

"Why are you just sitting here and offering to pay me fifty thousand yen to shut up?"

"Because that's my _mother_. Do- am I just... Just succumbing to some breed of saw-toothed psychic dementedness, or can you _see_ the insanity in it?" A thumb jerked over my shoulder; it is perhaps something more brazen than it should be.

But is not _my_ onus to justify these things.

It is debauchery.

" _Whoa_." Ah, ah, and there is validation.

There is the wisdom that it is not wrought in madness _alone_.

"You're seriously right, um, Orchid- _san_ -"

"Orchid." While a thigh _whispers_ upon mine; fabric and fabric and heat and heat.

"Ah. Orchid. I just... That chick totally _looks_ like you and- dude." Yes, _dude_.

'cause mommy's fingers are not delicate.

They are not subtle.

They do not dwell in _subtle's_ immediate universe.

Hands.

Clasped on the heavy lavish chest.

Biting into the flesh.

It is a shadow play unreality rearing up into meat and bone and blood spilling through her cheeks, dusky, dusky, _my_ cast.

"That- that's totally fucking _weird_ , Orchid- _sa_ \- ah, ah, I mean, _Orchid_. That's just... Dude, that's _so_ , like, fuckin' weird." Well.

Well.

"Aren't _you_ the adorable lil' Nagoya schoolgirl?"

"S-sorry. I'm jus' kinda... I'm from Nagoya, y'know?"

"Student?"

"Ah, kinda? I, y'know, uh, I kinda wanna be an _artist_."

"You _want_ to be an artist? Are you a poseur?"

"Nope. I'm a damn good artist. Nobody wantsa buy my stuff, though."

"Manga?"

"Paintin'." Well, isn't _this_ enchanting?

Snatching up one of her hands; fingers lace around the fine wrists.

The lush elegance in the digits.

"Ah. Ah. A painter? Picasso? Pollock?" How can you not jab the rust-dappled dagger deeper, deeper?

"Please. I said I was an artist; didn't say I was an _idiot_. I like Rembrandt; 'specially like Caravaggio."

"Gentileschi?"

"I'd _kiss_ her feet-"

"I think I already love you." There is a...

An _urgency_ in this.

I will murder Holofernes with her.

Yes.

"You have the _loveliest_ plumpest tits I think I've ever seen, you know, Noriko."

"T-thanksalot."

"Oh, it _is_ praise. Do you think you'd model for _me_ if I paid you?"

"Ah... Are you an artist?"

"I'm a _very_ sleazy admirer of the female form." There is laughter.

And eyes must narrow again with a glimpse of mommy's...

Her _depravity_ in this.

The defilement in the mirror's cold indictment wilting against her shoulder.

"She's fucking _fingering_ her. Can't you see it?" Noriko's eyes narrowed, also. "Can't you?"

"Ain't got my glasses-"

"Why aren't you wearing glasses? Glasses beauties are _doubly_ delicious."

"Manager- _sama_ ," oh so wry, a deep dark _opprobrium_ in the heavy husky voice, "Says glasses look too _off-putting_ for a maid; that we ain't that kinda place."

"What kind of place?"

"He said it'd be fine if we were a tsundere café; that's not the look he's goin' for."

"Tsundere? Fuck. But... Oh, what the _hell_? Mommy is..." It's something that defies credulity.

It is an invitation to scrutinizing the wrists.

The elbows.

"You _do_ see that, right?" Gawping at the _I_ 's eyes flaring open; the cheeks stained indigo with a flush deeper and darker than curdling midnight.

"Ah, yup-"

"It's so fucking unreal. And... Ah..." The eyes' implacable ravening flit to _her_ eyes. "Would you care to savor a bit of it?"

"Wha-"

"Don't you love girls? Their soft lavish grace; their delicious sweet _roundness_. You're just... So _fluffy_ -"

"Are you callin' me _fat_?"

"You have a great deal of very _photogenic_ fat; but you are _not_ this. I will not bellow _tally ho_ and urge Queequeg and Starbuck to man the harpoons. You are delicious; I would _feast_ upon you. Your tits' soft marshmallow plumpness.

"Every part of you. Are you wearing panties?"

"Y-yeah-"

"Oh, well. No one's perfect." And there is only the sharp quivering coiling _delirium_ in electricity racing up from fingers' graze upon her knees cradled in the stockings' crisp fabric.

"A-ahn... Ah..."

"I'm not asking you to _sell_ yourself to me. If you'd rather I not-"

"I wan' it. I wan' it. I, like, t-totally fuckin' wannit!" Strangled; squealing. The eyes immense and trembling and _glazed_ now. "Haven't gotten off without my plastic girlfriend f-for months-"

"Such a _meek_ beauty. Oh, well. More for me."

There is no subtlety.

Delicacy is sacrilege.

Fingers will lace between sumptuous thighs like oiled silk; will prod at the gauzy panties; will find purchase in the dark sumptuous flesh cradled in plump skin, faintly greasy with lust's bubbling immensity.

Slipping deeper, deeper.

 _Spearing_ her.

With one.

And another.

To know the head thrown back; the chest in its heaving madness. But there is a distance, an _alienation_ in this.

Because mommy's eyes are devoured with The _I_ 's, and not mine.

Because she is not even conscious of this.

Subdued silent spurts and sputters and squelches.

The body invaded.

A tremor and her lips clasped closed; her eyes' trembling convulsions.

"'m..." And the voice is a little more than a _rasp_ , the essence of syrupy juices racing up through gravel. "'m gonna _come_!"

"That _is_ what I'd hoped-"

"G-gah!" A gasp; a shiver.

Shudder.

Fingers clamped on my wrist.

"S-so good-"

"Would you like to be my muse, Noriko?" Because she must be kissed.

Because I must know meaning in _something_.

Because the warp drags deeper, deeper, deeper.

Swallowed down into darkless night.

Into lightless day.

We are afraid, and so we court the heat-death symphony.

Let us dance 'til the legs are arms, and the arms legs. Let us dance to the death and into life again through this great funnel.

Let us dance.


	6. Spiegelkanon

They are beautiful. This is the ideal, isn't it? Is it not our most fundamental craving? It is not a whim; it is not a fitful and fleeting and transient little conceit. It is something _elemental_. It lurks deeper than a depth the word _deep_ could ever quite aspire to illustrate. It is more basal than the visceral; it is more archaic than the evolutionary. It _whispers_ with the cave fish's rich lathering voice, the essence of living anachronism. We are coelacanth; we are an ancient meat that has yet to taste time's rot. We are content to _be_ this.

We know of nothing else. It is to peer at yourself, to admire your reflection captured in the eyes, to be conscious of the fingers and the hands and the lips, and still to be aghast. How can this be? How is it possible that there is not merely _one_ , but two? Life and life; a delirious wheeling waltz rapping with high high courtly heels to a mirrored fugue melody.

It is all madness. All madness is madness; all sanity is madness. _All_ must be madness. It is our life. Our faith. Our name is _insanity_. It is to know with something _fundamental_ what lurks in the consensus, the compromise, the meaningless concessions to one another that we dare to call _civilization_. The normative's cold kiss, brutal and clattering in silvered bracelets around your wrists.

We are only fettered with our ideals, while the Bavarian polka quavers in deep bleating brass.

We are bound to the prisons that have been wrought in our mere _surrender_. Our meager minds cannot perhaps aspire to anything apart from this. The _structure_ is vast, a leaden pummeling brutalist thing, conceived in layer and layer and layer of rotten judgment and intellectual lassitude and shiftlessness and a simple _horror_ of this distant and unknowable thing called _uncertainty_.

We will gorge ourselves on the certitudes, even when they are war's spearing cruelties, when they are cities reduced to ash, when they are The Bomb's supreme and sublime wisdom, the human race's penultimate moment when nature's very basal forces are harnessed, when alchemy slips history's bonds from fiction and into reality's brutal birth. When the mushroom cloud thunders skyward; when the rain and snow are black.

When the shadows are graven with the indelible's kiss upon the concrete _bleached_ with a blaze more glorious than the sun could ever wish or seek to conjure.

What is mankind's ultimate moment?

We glimpse the path to this with eyes closed against the ineluctable. It is certain, however, the drums a relentless pummeling command, and civilization's song is the lazy percussion in step after step after step after step, not merely blind but transfixed with our own feet and declaiming this the most grandiose perspective.

There are forever rationales.

There is eternally some _sainted reasoning_.

A bit of _common sense_.

A glint of _established wisdom_.

Why their suffering must be unheard.

Why the children's voices must be shrugged off like rain upon a battleship's hull.

Why the victims must be loathed, and the victimizers celebrated.

We are the sheep who will valorize and deify the wolf, and who will avert our eyes from the fur matted with blood, ragged and heaped amidst the bones that have not even been picked clean but have only been jovially recreationally maimed, the most delectable morsels prised from the broken meat and tossed not beyond our sight but amongst us.

We will be tasked with burying our own.

We will be obliged to partake of the sacrament, also, an act of garrulous cannibalism.

Our words will be recrimination for them.

We will _hate_ them.

We will love the wolf.

This is our fate. This is our compulsion. This is our destiny. But why, why, _why_ is she here? It would be a delirium, a perfection, to migrate through philosophical horizons, to implode into the psychedelic, to mantle onto one of the eldritch cockroach's great shoulders vaster and thicker than a stallion's, to rap with spurred heels at its flanks, to serenade myself with Tom Clarence Ashley and Gwen Foster, or maybe that's Tom Ashley and Clarence Gwen Foster, or maybe it's Tom and Clarence and Ashley and Gwen and Foster.

It is meaningless. They are dead. They are dead, and they are now ours, because the dead are no longer entitled to this ideal named differentiation. They are not kissed with the simple _agency_ to roar and gnash their fangs and bellow their individuation.

They are ours; they are communal property. They cannot fight back. Our memory is now their truth, and we will ultimately slip amongst their ranks. It is our faith, the Great Collective, five decades of spiritual horror and you will simply bleed into the textureless protean non-humanity, the faceless and nameless guilt heap gathering like fucking Everest, an uninterrupted ancestral nightmare.

They will still haunt us.

They are we.

We are they.

We will lace together our fingers and dance and sway and wheel through the endless darkness, tumbling down down down from the ledge that announces itself without equivocation, but it is our destination. We must fall, because there is and can _be_ no alternative.

Ad libidum, you know.

It is our aspiration.

But we are shackled with a Teutonic fundamentalism for this ideal named _order_. Order is all. Twist and coil and tangle through her.

Drag her deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

Know the ceiling. Ultimately, ultimately, _all_ is the ceiling.

"I, ah... It's kind of weird that, ah..." Yes, yes, the ceiling. The ceiling in its great and glorious convolutions; the ceiling in its rarefied cohesive universe, a union in its thread stitched through this and all others. Even the sky, ultimately, is one of its sistren.

We are all _she_.

We must all _be_ she.

Yes, yes.

A voice trembles through the ears.

"Mmm? What is it, Noriko- _chan_?" Because this is her name; because her apartment is anointed with the ideal named _modesty_. It is Ayumi's in its exotic affectation; it is a _kiss_ upon the cheek while you're steeped in a haze wrought in the tatami's aged must.

The walls faintly sallow, whatever the paint's commendable Light Brigade ambitions, with generations' accumulated cigarette fug. The windows sticky with this in its tarry amber, and warping the city's effulgence in a surreal black-mirror prism.

She is beautiful; her _voice_ is beautiful. Toes tremble.

"Ngn, it's just... I mean... You- you're just... How, like, do I say this-"

"Without soundin' like your IQ's less than your bust." It's a compulsory cruelty; fingertips and toes now, _clutch_ at the bare tatami.

"How's a rich girl like you just... Just get up an' say to some family restaurant waitress, _I wanna put you through school_?" It is our incredulity.

It is our simple _unwillingness_ to admit this valuation in cash's meaningless increments for those whose contributions are in the tangible, and not the negative.

Whose very _being_ is not a shadow besmirching the light.

She is an artist.

Should we lavish our adulation and our adoration upon the vacuous squalling grotesques in human masks that are to be idolized for channeling society's fetishistic clamoring to _exalt_ its own ranks, as desiccated of talent as Mars is of Disney plushes, to divinity. To gorge oneself on those that will be set apart from us in febrile delusions of unattainable ideal in morality, in the _sublime_.

Should it be reserved for those whose talents are little more than dampening yourself when you wade into a stream of cash?

Should it be constrained to the Hollywood and Bollywood and _anywood_ throng whose worth is little more than cipher for basement-dwelling scriptwriters' banalities?

Art.

Art.

 _Art_ is our most woefully elusive quality.

It slips the simpleminded groping throngs' understanding as surely as philosophy, as science.

As a fucking worthwhile paprikash recipe.

"One? I'm not a rich girl. I'm a girl who _enriched_ herself. Wealth is from _my_ labors; I am not an heiress-"

"I recognized that lady, y'know. Your mom? If- if that's really your mom, anyway. 's Kisaki Eri- _sensei_ , right?" Well, _fuck_." The spine limns an achingly languorous arch; it is to channel the Tacoma Narrows bridge, shuddering, convulsing, up and down and up and down with a standing-wave elegance, a wriggling ripple like a palsied spastic slug.

Once and again and again and-

"W-whoa, your abs are... I didn't think you were _that_ strong, Orchid- _chan_." Ah, ah, and we will gorge ourselves upon this phantasmagorical intimacy.

"No? I _was_ , what, was it twice? Or thrice? National Karate champion-"

"So, ah, you really are _that_ Orchid, huh? Mōri Ran?"

Eyes slip closed.

 _Blaze_ open.

It is the essence of napalm heaped upon white phosphorous.

It is to know rage in its supersaturated _purity_.

Springing up; not a quick slapping lurch to your bare soles with Jackie Chan violence, but only palms _cracking_ at the floor, craning up up up up.

"What the _hell_ did you say? My name is _not_ Mōri. An' it sure as hell ain't Kisaki, either. My _parents_ ' names are Mōri and Kisaki. _My_ name is Orchid. Do you understand?" Yes, it is a cruelty.

For the sketch to be ruptured in its cohesion.

But there is an order that must be upheld.

The eyes are immense, quivering behind the spectacles that consummate the luscious glasses allure, the great effulgences in shimmering circular panes tucked into thick black frames poised on the fine nose's bridge.

The lips are luscious, enchanting.

The flesh in its fluffy elegances not merely suggested but _announced_ with a tee-shirt simply painted in a creamy brazenness over the sumptuous soft skin; the tits heavier than heavy, fucking depleted uranium as marshmallow, they _flare_ into a delectable relief over the belly's geometries.

The legs long and succulent and bare but for the perfunctory shorts that announce humanity's rarefied bits of wisdom in the better-living-through-chemistry.

The sainted incantation named Lycra.

Bare toes that clamor to be kissed and adored.

"S-s-sorry, Orchid- _chan_ ; 's just-"

"Just _what_?" Palms clamped on my hips.

It is a rarefied faculty to _peal_ with rage in thunder's great strains and lightning's sky-fissuring crack when your flesh is bared in its soft dusky candor.

But there is a shoulder-hunching _shrink_.

"It... I mean..."

"Will you just _speak_ , goddammit? What? Are you just _terrified_ all that delicious cash an' liberation'll vanish? It's yours; I promised it. Do you have a joint?"

"N-no, no, I don't-"

"Why did you ask?"

"'cause, I mean... It's... I have a crush on Kisaki- _sensei_ , okay?" It's peering into the closet and finding Iosef Stalin asking if this _really_ is the freeway to Funkytown.

Told you, Soso, that we should've gotten off on the exit from Neu Konstantinopleqorum. Yes. Yes. Qingiz Khan will answer so.

Indeed.

"Y-you _what_?" Gawp at her.

It is not the _geometry_.

It is the unreality in this creasing the ears.

From her.

From...

The word is not _lover_.

Luster? Yes. Yes. This is its essence.

"Wha? Whaddi say?" The eyes huge, lashes beating a long somnolent _stroke_ over her cheeks behind the lenses' deforming glint.

"You- my _mother_? You _are_ talking about Kisaki _Eri_ , right? Eri- _sensei_? The arrogant sneering emasculating attorney? The bitch that can actually _prevail_ against a justice system that'd awe the North Koreans in its unfairness?"

"Ah, yeah. The Queen of The Courtroom-"

"Yeah. Like the battleship is the Queen of The Oceans. She's monstrous, you know." Fingertip clasped on my lips. "Mmm... You don't have a joint?"

"S-sorry. 's illegal-"

"So is fucking a girl in this backass culture."

"Only in Ōsaka." It's a garrulous little chirrup.

"No joints? No junk?"

"Whazzat?" Fine long lithe fingers wound 'round a charcoal stylus, brushed still with a quick and faintly absentminded rasp over the page.

"You're still sketching me?"

"This's fuckin' _incredible_ , y'know, Orchid- _chan_? Y'think they geddus AV models or whatever to draw for gesture drawing? 's all just... Ugly fat old guys an' super-skinny skanks an' stuff."

"Since when are _you_ so vapid?"

"Since I've had three shots. Thanks for buyin' me that vodka. I'm, ah, still kinda underage-"

"Fuck it." A plea for _something_.

The beauty's eyes _are_ glazed, aren't they?

Lovely.

"So, you like my body, Noriko?"

"Uuuuh- _huuuh_." Long and slow and syrupy; it's a quality like a man's lust drooling from that ridiculous taut straining thing when it lurks oh so _urgently_ near to fulfillment, huddled in ambush, a diabolic beast snarling and snapping its jaws and pleading for outlet. "Oh, I do. A whole lot. Every part'a ya.

"Yer a lot prettier'n yer do... Du... Dopuru..." Tongue numb and tortured and the lips ungainlier than an anesthetized tortoise with a parkour hobby.

"What?" Eyes narrowing into a legitimate _squint_.

"Y'know, that German word means _double_ -"

" _Doppelgänger_."

"Yeah. Thaztheone."

"You're _really_ fucked up, aren't'cha, Noriko?"

" _Yup_. I- I don't really drink much. Last time I did was- was when... When some guy bought me drinks 'cause he wanned to get in my pants. Oh! An' when I'd go out with my high school friends. Mariya's dad owned a liquor store, so, y'know, we got all the stuff we wanted."

"Did he?"

"Did he own a liquor store-"

"Your date?"

"Geddin my pants? Naw. I- I didn't really want it. Fuckin' stupid. Who gets a girl so fucked up she's pukin' on her shoes an' then tries to fuck her?"

"Most pathetic men? Herbivores who _need_ to buttress their prospects with the _authentic_ predators by addling their minds and breaking their fangs?"

"Guess so. Ngn... I don't feel _that_ wasted now. I just... I'm so... I'm _amazed_ with your body. 's- 's all _sexy_."

"Well. Aren't we eloquent today-"

"It's _true_!" Wailing it with a sharp petulant little keen.

It's a _pout_.

"You _are_ sexy; you- you... I mean, y'look like y'walked outta a porno manga's pages. I dunno what it is. I guess it's just... You've got _everything_. Everything I ever _wanted_. I'm kinda chubby-"

"You're _fluffy_ ; not chubby. Believe me, Noriko, all right? I've _seen_ chubby. Hell, I've _fucked_ chubby. When the face is beautiful, when the tits still _dwarf_ the belly and the ass is delicious and the legs are long, it's not exactly something you need to _force_ yourself to savor.

"You're just... _Fluffy_ ; fluffy, like well-leavened cake-"

"Gee. Thanks." Sulking. Sulking.

"It's true-"

"You have bigger boobs than _I_ do!" A tormented little bleat from the lips; knelt now, with fingertips _pricking_ at her fine sharply-defined chin.

"I do. And I'm taller than you by eight inches-"

"An' another thing! How's a Japanese girl get so fuckin' _tall_?"

"Mom is. My dad is-"

"All of y'all just look like somebody drew ya, y'know? 's what I'm talkin' about. Your mom looks a lil' different; _harder_."

"She is. It's her disease, you know. It's a metabolic malady; a psychic one, also. It's contagious."

"Wha?"

"It's called _Sublimierung_."

"Wha?" Again, again, the lashes' slow guileless flit. "What? I- I don't speak German-"

"So I _infer_." To sway, writhe.

A quick elegant pirouette.

"Whoa, y'can dance, too?" And again, once again, this entrancing awe. To... It isn't quite the tyrant's narcissistic indulgence.

It is not the groveling sycophant's reflexive adulation.

And it perhaps is.

"No. I just don't dance _terribly_ ; I can't dance. Not truly. Ayumi is a sublime dancer. Her hips; her legs-"

"So're you. I'm just... 'm so jealous. Y'look like that kinda girl who, I mean, _I dunno_. Who got the lucky draws when her turn came up."

"You're right. I did. Genetically? It was a _very_ lucrative roulette." It is something... Delirious. To know the thoughts' heady crash and crush and ricochet, flitting and wheeling and twisting and tangling and unlacing themselves and _hammering_ at the walls cradling that strange unknowable place, paradox's victim, thought unable to know itself.

To chart its own dimensions.

Ultimately, we are blind. We cannot know our eyes; we cannot taste this with confidence in the philosophical, in the biological. There is only _this_. Faith. Faith. Undulations in the hips; the thighs' tremor.

"Genetically, it's true. It was so... So _beneficent_. But maybe not my _character_. It's so strange, isn't it, Noriko? I never wanted to be anything but _ordinary_. There was this- this _exalted_ image. It's surreal, reflecting on it now.

"A perfection; an ideal. Chirruping soft voice!" Cooing, a high nasal-tinged garrulous _vapid_ pitch. "And a body that wouldn't even be for _me_ , but for another's gratification. Everything simply _externalized_.

"It would lie without me. I would be the sainted housewife-"

"Whoa, _you_?"

"Isn't it unreal? And it just... Imploded. When fantasy converges with reality, it's just a _tiny_ micron of matter and a fucking _Everest_ of antimatter. There's no real challenge. It's an elephant mating with a flea. It's to know everything _crushed_ under its marauding bulk.

"It's... It's your every hope, your every fantasy, _ravaged_. It's probably what that cliché _loss of innocence_ really captures. It's not a bit of meat. Did you have a hymen?"

"Ah, wha?" Blinking, blinking, _again_.

"Did. You. Have. A. Hymen? You're not a cherry, right?"

"'s a funny word for it, y'know?" Giggling into the page. "Y'gonna keep dancing?"

"Oh, is _someone_ a fetishist for that? For a dancer?"

"I _looove_ dancers, Orchid- _chan_. Seriously, fuckin' love 'em. They're jus' all... Everythin' I'm _not_ , y'know? Long an' tall an' lean an'... An' their _legs_."

"They're _scarecrows_ -"

"Not the sexy ones. My big sis is a dancer; she ain't a scarecrow."

" _Exotic_ dancer?"

"Uh- _uh_. She don't strip." The charcoal's quick in its decisive rasping strokes over the page.

"It must be lovely to be an artist, Noriko."

"Whuh?" Such _enchanted_ elegance. "Whaddaya mean-"

"Just that. I have no artistic talent. At least..." Well, it is not what the word _politic_ captures. It is not beauty's _archetype_.

It is the butcher's artistry.

The carnivore chef's.

It is meat ravaged.

Bone _ruptured_ and reassembled in its fanciful patterns.

Blood's abstract expressionism in its dappling spray upon the wall.

"At least, nothing really _worthwhile_. I guess you could only call it _destructive_ artistry-"

"Oooh, _I like that_. Y'ain't a writer or anythin' like that? 'cause you're good with words-"

"Nor am I even an _orator_. It's not my scene, you know." Wheel, and writhe, and there is a candor in nakedness.

In this edenesque grace.

To know the flesh's tremor.

The fat's quaver.

Meat's heavy thick _sternness_.

The body.

Closer.

And closer.

"Would you care to dance-"

"I'm _lovin_ ' this. Never had this kinda figure drawin' before."

And so there can only be the dance.

"Never? Never never _never_? Not once? Not once have you been graced with this rarefied bliss, whatever your outrageous tuition?"

"'s school, I guess. I dunno _where_ it goes, honestly. I _do_ know our asshole president drives an Audi." The lips drawn taut with a smile that's less mirth and more the tiger's jovial sneer when its nostrils palpitate, scenting the hot jungle air with a hungry plea for the flesh yielding, for the bone _snapping_.

"Mmm. Our obsessions with these banal little sigils. An Audi is a Ford with a bit of Nazism; it's a fucking _Volkswagen_ conceived for morons with a simple need to burnish their Veblen credentials. I'd never drive one.

"They're fucking _gaudy_."

"What do you drive?"

"Nothing. I, ah, _hone_ my obsessive algolagnia with public transportation."

"Seriously? All that money-"

"And _no_ time to squander ruing our country's condescending traffic lies while I fester in traffic and scowl at the motherfuckers in the bus lane. That's _right_." Wheel, and twist. It's something that doesn't quite capture Ayumi's balletic perfection; harder, sharper, a _martial_ ease in the bounce and lunge and cavort.

But there is still beauty.

The eyes immense; there is narcissism's enchanting reflection in the heavily-lobed obsidian.

The trembling ethanol-glazed lust.

It is poison.

 _All_ is poison.

"Ngn... I'm gettin' kinda gooey, y'know, thinkin' about you just bein' on the train or the bus."

"Why?" With the eyes' sharp vulpine _spear_.

"Well, y'know... I've got those kinda fantasies, too. I know they're sick. But..." There is _shame_ 's urgent sharp kiss.

It is something huge, self-evident, a _brand_ 's garnet symmetries announced on the cheeks bubbling with liquor-lubricated candor.

"Tell me. Tell me. Tell me." It is less the child's vacuous chirruping and more the jurist's _command_.

 _Enma_ should perhaps be stamped upon my brow.

I am a demoness.

I am not a demoness.

It is, oh, what is the cliché? It is complicated. Because this announces that it is a distasteful simplicity that can be captured in a single sentence.

In a _grunt_.

But it should not be.

We dare not stain ourselves with these things.

"It's- y'know, it's stupid. 's silly-"

"Everything is stupid; everything is silly." There can really be no equivocation. It either is, or it isn't. And if it is not, it still is. In its very being, it gropes at purchase on this universe in its tangible dimensions.

It bleeds promiscuously and without discrimination into the collective.

The most sainted wisdom and the sublimest philosophy still cradle idiocy and rank superstition to their breast and do not merely _dance_ but writhe and pitch and heave and permit themselves to melt together, relentless and ineluctable.

Fingers outstretched to _pluck_ at her lips; to cradle the pert lavish softness between thumb and forefinger.

" _Everything_ is stupid, you know, Noriko- _chan_. Every _one_. It's futile to breathe; it's meaningless to live. But we still persevere with it. It's little more than the flesh-machine, than the soft machinery's clamoring simply to _be_.

"It needs no validation, and no vindication. It _is_. That's it. In glorious artistry or overfed self-satisfied _nothing_. Profundity or idiot consumerism. Suicide is fundamentally unnatural; it shouldn't be. Our _cells_ are harakiri machines. But not _we_.

"No, no, no. We've evolved a senseless fanaticism to perpetuate ourselves. And what's the meaning in it, Noriko- _chan_? Tell me. Really. To breed? To procreate? On a planet _swamped_ with us? On a planet that's being reduced to wreckage, to ruin, in our prepossessing _fanaticism_ not merely to be but to be _grandiosely_?

"Tell me, will you? What's the worth in breeding? _I_ excised myself from the fucking gene pool. It's ironic, isn't it? Probably one of those who'd actually _contribute_ genetically to this society. But I understand it. Are you sterile?"

"W-well, naw, I'm not."

"What a tragedy-"

"That ain't too nice t'say." While fingers slacken in their purchase on her lips.

"Your lips are so fucking _soft_. But I don't mean it as an affront to you _personally_. I had a tubal ligation."

"Don't that feel weird?"

"What?"

"Gettin' yer tubes tied, I mean." An enchantment in the timid eyes' flit and flicker. "Y'ain't..."

"I _do_ have a scar. I have _many_ scars." There is a twist, a bounce, a flourish and cavort. "I am a _patchwork_ of scars! Less human and more simply that ragged dead tissue-"

"Y'only have a few."

"The surgery will efface that. The surgery can expunge the _flesh_." And it is a simple truth.

There are gradations in scar tissue.

There are great lurid keloids.

There are the more furtive furrows.

There are those that dwell beneath the dusky sun-dappled waters; the ridges and scrawling geometries that will never be tasted until one _dives_ , plunges into the depths.

They do not matter. _Nothing_ quite matters in this.

"But not every scar vanishes, you know. It was _here_." A palm _clamped_ on my belly. "I was awake; I _demanded_ to be. To be lucid. It was unreal, you know, to peer into your own flesh. To admire the supreme _ugliness_ that's so enchanting from without.

"It's a childish experience, you know. Peering through fantasy's skein that seems as certain and as indelible as the sun and understanding that it's all _mechanistic fiction_. It's all a fucking. _Farce_. That's it. I'm sterile.

"It's _delicious_. To know that there will never be a child here. If they could've gouged out my ovaries, I would've been happier still."

"But, um, 'at puts ya inna menopause, right?" The tongue numb with liquor; her fingers still quick and decisive in the charcoal's deft lisping whisper over the page.

"Yeah. That's right."

"So, ah, why'd'ya have yer tubes tied?"

"I hate children."

"So do I. 's kinda extreme."

"Have you ever fucked a man?"

"Um... Kinda? Once or twice?" The dance is an immortality. It is indelible. It will _persevere_ ; even when the flesh has slipped this universe's cruel bondage in the corporeal, the dance's ricochet and flit and flicker will survive, will splash back again and again and again in accordance with its own wisdoms carved away from its genesis.

It no longer _is_.

It cannot be.

Cast away into the endless darkness. It is so shackled to one's vain agency as the wavelets that ripple and crash across foreign shores from boulder the great Colossus _hefts_ into Rhodes' harbor.

"Kinda? Once or twice? You'd imagine that you'd _remember_ -"

"Okay, okay, so they- they were kinda... Bad, y'know?" The lips clasped together in a purse like an irascible duck.

"Bad?"

"Just... They sucked, I guess. I mean, y'know, when y'had your fingers in me? Just- just like _that_? That wasn't _hard_ , right?"

"Ah-"

"Well, it was _harder_ than they were. 's so fuckin' hard about just- just _getting_ it in a girl an' doin' more than pumpin' once or twice for about thirty seconds?" The smile taut and miserable.

"Well, isn't _that_ fucking predictable?"

"W-what about you?"

"Men are... Men. They're _meat_. You've had a bad steak, right?"

"Well, yeah-"

"So you've had a bad steak. That's _it_. Men are a meaningless bit of tissue. I'd rather they just be caged and brought out at a whim whenever the hunger overtakes me. I'd love to keep a pen of them. A generous _paddock_. And they should be fucking _obedient_.

"You should be allowed to put your hands on a man. It's a simpler correction than _language_. The cooing and keening and the, _Oh, honey_. My stupid fucking mother." There's... Well, it isn't what the word _polite_ captures.

My very being is an affront to this.

"If this were _my_ home, there'd be something expensive decorating the wall. And not because it was _meant_ to be hung there. My mother. My goddamn _mother_. Do you fucking understand, Noriko- _chan_?" While the lissome shoulders hunched and plunge down down down 'til they hit her ascending colon.

"A-ah... Um, y'know, 's- 's not my business-"

"Everything is _everyone's_. It's humiliating, you know, to be his daughter. To be _her_ daughter. To- to be obliged to _gorge_ yourself, _choke_ yourself, on these mortifying bits of sainted romantic idealism. This _perfection_ in the My Prince Will Come romanticism. And to know when you finally reach adulthood that they had _an arrangement_.

"An _agreement_. That there's some perverse kernel of self-flagellation, her own diseased algolagnia, in _all_ of the martyrdom. His philandering; his _straying_. Like a fucking dachshund on hormone supplements, goddammit!"

But there is laughter.

Laugh.

Laugh.

Laugh. Laughter is the soul's language; laughter is the soul's _poison_. Swallow down the truth like the finest most sumptuous junk and _drown_ in it. Wallow; slip down down down through the cold waters that roil like perfumed cesium.

Shudder and bubble and jander and cavort and bounce and mince and rise and fall and know, yes, yes, you will _know_ the elemental truth in this.

Time's passage will not efface the wounds.

It is to _understand_ the wounds.

It is something forensic, perhaps. It is to be the investigator that will chart the bullets' passage through eternities, day after day, every one another micron, another, and another, and another. These great constellations that delusion once portrayed in their convolutedness with simplemindedness' unwillingness to admit in their simplicity.

Mother.

Father.

Mom.

Dad.

Mommy.

Daddy.

Ah, ah, these extremities, these sainted ideals. We dare not admit the elemental truth. They are _human_ ; they are nothing more. Exalted primates.

"Ah, um, Orchid- _chan_ -"

"Orchid. Please. _Only_ fucking _Orchid_. No honorifics. It's... It's democratic, you know." There is laughter. Heaving and shuddering from the breast.

"Ah, um, Orchid, are you drunk?"

"Am I _drunk_? No, no. I'm high on _life_! And junk. And... Maybe more than a little of the vodka." Bare feet are a quick rhythmic slap along the tatami; the bottle snatched up and the cap a shrill little wheeze while it's twisted away.

Another two or three shots _gasped_ down in a breath.

"Ah, that's _such_ shit! But I am my father's daughter. And my _mother's_ , also. I'd never really seen her drink 'til lately. But it's not only _daddy_ who's a fuckin' lush. That's the simple truth." Sway, and wheel, and know the flesh in its _tension_. The meat taut and cinching upon the bone.

The most perfectly photogenic fat in its quaking tremors.

"You're so beautiful, Orchid." And there is a wisdom in the thighs _shuddering_ together.

"Am I? Or is it that my _tits_ are beautiful-"

"Your legs, too. They just- I mean, y'know, y'look like you have enough legs for about _eight_ people. They're so long. But they're so- so, y'know, like, _shapely_ an' stuff." Quite the tribute. "I'm serious. They're _amazing_."

"You're another leg fetishist?" As if there's anything like ambiguity muddling the faceted-diamond clarity that could carve through fine crystal.

"Uh- _huh_. I love girls' legs. I... My classmates always thought I was kinda a freak. It was fair. They bullied me all the time after Kaede found my sketches. They were always waist-down-"

"You are a bit of a freak. I like that. Do you mind if _I_ have a joint, at least? I just... I'd like to... It's a little difficult to articulate to a square, I guess. A _rectangular object_. But-"

"I- I am _not_ a square." With lips clamped together in a plump grandiose pout.

"Oh, I'm sure. So, you've savored the simple bliss in a bit of ganja?"

"Well, no. But..."

"You're a _good_ girl. You lost your cherry, sure, but even _that_ was pathetic. Who was your first?"

"English teacher." It's a sullen little _grunt_. "It was fuckin' pathetic, too. He's a handsome guy; I thought he was so _amazing_. I mean, y'know, 's kinda a cliché, right?"

"I'd say so."

"Who was _your_ first?"

"Mine?" The smile is a cold bladed stripe to be clamped against the wrist.

To carve with emo-kid exuberance deep, deep, deeper still.

"Why does it matter?"

"I just- I just kinda wonder-"

"Why not my second? Or my third? It's so desperately deeply _pathetic_ , isn't it? That patriarchal bullshit? To be so _preoccupied_ with the first."

"Well, y'know... 's just that it sucked for me. I bled a lot. An' it wasn't really fun at all an' the guy, I mean, he just... He was _so_ gorgeous. An' then I learn he's some kinda nasty cherry-hound with a wife and two kids at home, an' I felt _sick_.

"So disgusted with myself."

"And not with him?"

"See? Sick!" A wretched little bleat.

"Would you like a joint? It's Thai Stick."

"Whazzat?"

"Square." And there can only be laughter. "But I'd like to see your sketch-"

"'s a _sketch_. It's for _my_ use-"

"Square. Square. _Square_." With supreme opprobrium.

"Oh, _c'mon_ , Orchid-"

"I'm serious. If you're not one of the cool girls-"

"I was _never_ one'a the cool girls." And still, still, long fine fingers are outstretched to her, _urging_ her up, up, up.

Coaxing her from her seat.

"Dance with me, all right, Noriko? Child of Seaweed-"

"It is _not_ written like that." But she will still stand.

Bare toes prickle with the tatami.

"I _love_ that, however. And you _have_ quite a bit, you know-"

"S-so I'm not some kind of trendy paipan chick-"

"You're beautiful, you know, Seaweed Child." Drag her closer, closer. The pad's something to be _snatched_ from her.

Eyes will scrutinize the charcoal's strokes.

Gawp at the...

"The _technique_ is fanfuckintabulous, Seaweed beauty. _Wow_. This is _tremendous_." To know the elemental _perfection_ in this.

It is perfect in its imperfection.

It is elegant.

Dazzlingly supremely elegant.

The _figure_ in its subjectivity captured not with photorealistic fundamentalism but something altogether _profounder_.

"Wow, wow, _wow_ , Seaweed Child. It's incredible." It is.

To know yourself in reflection.

It is not the mirror's cold mercury absolute.

It is something protean; the fingers are little more than nebulous hooves but the legs are fine and sleek and the breasts fall heavy and soft and still, still, there is an enchanting imperfection in it.

"Mmm. You're a _fantastic_ artist. Are you rewarded for it?"

"Financially?"

"Don't be a fucking moron." Eyes not straying from the artist's fine technique.

The sketch.

And sketch.

And another and another and another.

The postures and poises that defy anything like the non-artist's simple imagination. The awe that it could ever actually even be _approximated_ in these strokes.

"Ono Yōko is lauded as a musician and an artist; Jackson Pollock is esteemed; the _talentless_ dictate society's sensibilities. Rewards are conceived to reinforce their brittle egos. It's a point of _comfort_ ; it's succor to inferior minds.

"I'd never ask you if you're rewarded for outstanding work. Because you have _talent_. I know you'd never be rewarded. Artists, writers, thinkers, philosophers... If you don't appeal to the lowest of the lowest of the _lowest_ common denominator, poverty is your destiny." And it is a simple elemental truth. "But I still envy you. I have _no_ artistic faculty at all. Stick figures elude my cloddish hands. Alas, alas, alas.

"My talent is only in injuring people."

"You're smart."

"And what do you think _fuels_ that faculty for injuring humanity? Intellect is a virtue in that. It's the only field where there _is_ reward for it."

"So, um, you're... You're a lawyer, like your mom?"

"Not _exactly_. I'm studying law. At Todai-"

"S-shit. You go to Todai? Guess it figures-"

"Oh, don't be so ridiculous. It's not _difficult_ -"

"You're smart. It'd be kinda obvious, right?" It's something...

So fucking _lachrymal_.

It merits only laughter.

Sharp.

Heaving.

 _Guffawing_.

"Y-you're serious? You're _serious_?" With the supremest delicacy; with a _passion_ for this elegance captured in the charcoal's strokes.

Tucked onto a battered tenthhand table nestled beside the musty time-ravaged sofa.

And there's only a clamoring to bully.

To lace fingers through her lavish soft hair.

To tug.

To pull.

"W-what the hell?!" Incredulity.

"You think it's about _intellect_? Admission to Todai? Please. The entrance exams are nothing but uncritical unexamined rote _shit_. It's intellectual bulimia nervosa. It's meaningless."

"S-stop it. You're- you're scaring me, Orchid-"

"Good. You _should_ be scared. Inviting strange girls to your apartment because they promise to pay for your education. You _should_ be scared. What kind of naïve fucking _slut_ does that, anyway?" There's authentic terror in the eyes.

Scrabbling _spearing_ between my thighs.

"W-what, that-"

"Don't be afraid. Tell me, Noriko. Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. C'mon. Tell Orchid. Tell Big Sister Orchid _what_ you'd like to say. I'm paying for your education. It's that fucking simple; whatever it is, it's _that_ simple. I never fail to fulfill my promises."

So there is a palm for her cheek.

Aghast.

Stillness.

Sudden.

Sharp.

The awareness that she's been _impaled_ upon it. The eyes tumble open and lips slacken and there is a tension rearing up, brutal, shuddering, _clutching_ at every nerve.

"W-what the fuck, Orchid-"

"Big Sister Orchid. 's my name. You're, what, nineteen? I am _not_ merely nineteen. And you'd like to know about my _first_. Would you really?" Wilting down, down, down.

A phantasmagorical presence.

It is to inhabit the breath.

To possess the very air.

Wreathe her.

 _Twist_ around her.

Entangle us.

Seaweed wound 'round a blade wheeling through the ocean's black waters cradled like velveteen ink in the moonless midnight.

Lips _grope_ at hers.

"You're _delicious_ , you know, Noriko. Would you really like to know about my _first_? Then you should really _persuade_ me, shouldn't you? It's about economics; it's an exchange. I'll only fucking say this _once_ again, all right?"

A palm upraised.

 _Hammering_ at her cheek.

And the left.

And the right.

And the left again.

"I'll only say this _once_! Do you fucking understand me?!" Bellowing; an indifference to the walls' brittle tissue-paper meaninglessness.

It is shadow play flourish; it is for the dialogue to _plume_ through the anemic boundaries, for there only to be an _intuition_ in the geometries whispered in the words, in the simple sonic universe percolating through its boundaries.

"You don't belong to me because I'm paying for your education. You have no fucking obligation to me. I'll cut you the check this evening if you'd like. What the hell _else_ is the money's worth, anyway?

"For me? No. No. I don't care. I couldn't aspire to care any _less_ ; the negative interest would probably just implode the universe. You're an artist. It's a worthy thing, you know. In this culture that's shrugged off the spiritual, the celestial, the intellectual wonderment in inquisition.

"That dwells in a materialist _hell_ it's wrought in its circuitry. That embodies the machine now. That doesn't gorge itself on superstitions of ghosts in machines; it _is_ its own machinery, soulless and empty." And there is another blow.

Palm _clamped_ on her cheek's hot satin lushness.

Thumb brushed over lips like plump cherry petals.

"You really are beautiful. But you owe me _nothing_. Force me out. Hit me. Anything. It doesn't trouble me at _all_. You wanted to hear about my first, right? Right?" Kiss her.

Kiss her.

Mouths fall together.

Tongues lace in a crazed wheeling convulsion.

Stitch and coil and twine.

"Well? Well? Aren't you going to order me out, slut?"

"I- I..." While heat _wreathes_ her; while she is become a universe of desires.

"Well? Well? Won't you _answer_ , Noriko? C'mon, Seaweed Slut-"

"D-don't fuckin' call me that." It's not _defiance_.

No.

No.

It's anemic.

Pitiful.

It's a hopeless helpless little keen.

"You've never been _anything_ but the withdrawn pitiful little geek, have you? You've always been the loser; you've always been the sorta-chubby girl that the popular cunts terrorize, that the boys could never _countenance_ asking out, however _lovely_ this pretty face is, right?

"You have _no_ self-esteem, huh?"

Lips trembling.

"And you're _degraded_ every day wearing that disgusting fucking bit of walking validation for every radfem screed. Right? Right?"

How can you not?

It's wicked.

I know that it is.

 _I_ am wicked.

All is wicked.

"Isn't that true, Noriko? Won't you even _answer_ me-"

"W-why're you acting like this, Orchid? 's kinda weird-"

"Weird, is it?" It's _petulance_ , ain't it? It's a palm _hammered_ on her cheek now; it's to know the knees' tremor, the flesh _melting_.

Wet; sticky; scalding.

"I'm _weird_? That- that didn't occur to you yet, Seaweed Slut? I think I like that, y'know. It's delectable; it really is." Another slap; and now, now, the back of a hand.

Adore her with the knuckles in their crushing relief.

"And you're doing _nothing_." With her eyes downcast. "What's _wrong_ with you? Ah. Ah. _I_ have an inkling of what it is, y'know." It's...

Vanishing.

Flitting, flickering; an instant and you're no longer there. Not confronting her eyes but simply coiling with a quick serpentine ease behind the luscious soft geometries. Palms clasped on her shoulders; bowing down down down with the spine's quick easy contortion. A breath wafts hot with merciless prickling _infernal_ weight over the nape of the neck, sluicing through her hair's graceful curtaining abundance.

Anthracite grace.

"I think I have _some idea_ , y'know, Seaweed Slut? I think it's... Mmm..." Not a puppy's quick adorable snuffling; it's nostrils flaring, _inflamed_ , sucking down the fragrance wafting up up up from between her thighs' cradling sensual sublimity. Candid. Absolute.

Beyond _anything_ like equivocation.

"Ah, that's what it is. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah." It's the tigress' hungers, dragged deep into the lungs, the aromas painting themselves in great intricate Repin perfection over the flesh's every mote and morsel. "You _adored_ it. Being bullied, I mean. You were always _craving_ it. Not the _worst_ of the assholes.

"Or maybe. Who knows, right?" With fingers rearing up, up.

 _Dimpling_ her tits' _very_ generous bulk.

Yielding.

Marshmallow-perfect.

"Ngn... T-that's not... Really..." And there's something archetypal. Quintessential. Head simply thrown back with her back's deliriously deliciously _elegant_ strain, its arch, neck slender and long and swanlike and her cheek wound along my throat.

"Oh, _really_? You're not even a _bit_ masochistic? I can _taste_ it, y'know. Algolagnia's staining perfume. It's indelible. Absolute. So fucking _ingenuous_. You're wreathed with it. You want it. You _need_ it.

"You're craving it. That's- ah, ah, _ah_! That's the reason you'd humiliate yourself without complaint with that fucking idiot costume. The heat in your cheeks when some sleazy bastard, some young student, some judgmental middle-aged housewife...

"Anyone, anyone, when they _notice_ you. These ridiculous fucking udders," clenching now, _biting_ through the shirt's brittle fabric, not merely stained but _sodden_ in sweat's fragrant effusion, "These long long _long_ legs.

"You admire them, don't'cha? In the mirror? You're a leg fetishist and you can appreciate your own, right? These slutty legs." A grope; a clutch at the left with a hand that's stealing down with an unhurried _grind_ down her belly's plush convolutions.

It isn't _fat_.

Fluffy.

Yes.

This is the only word, isn't it?

And now, now, now, settling not _between_ the thighs but only coaxing a huge convulsive _gust_ from the breast shuddering and almost spasmodic with the tiniest graze over that oiled-silk grace.

"'s... 's... 's so complicaa-"

"Complicated? I _hate_ that word; it's a meaningless, _senseless_ fuckin' word, you know. Only meaningless senseless fuckin' people would ever even _imagine_ speaking it. Nothing's _complicated_. I'm not adulating gratuitous simplicity.

"But complication's something _else_." Nip and nibble now; teeth become fangs, _graze_ a throat straining with blood's implacable pulsation, an act of biologic self-affirmation, through the flesh.

And it is something deeper still, isn't it?

It is visceral.

Reflexive.

The skin flushed.

A shuddering supersaturated sensitivity pluming through every _inch_.

Nibble.

Lips sheathe them for a moment to drape her with dewy long lingering kisses.

"Tell me. You _adore_ it, right? That succulent entrancing algolagnia. That's your obsession. You'd rather deny it, but it _is_ true-"

"'s trueeeeeee!" That was...

Not prolonged.

It is not confessional.

"My second boyfriend broke up with me 'cause he's a puuuusssssyyyyy!" And now, now, we stumble into the _confessional_. "I wanted him to tie me up an' beat me an', like, do nasty fuckin' stuff ta me, an' he called me a freak an' went home!

"An'- an' we didn't even _screw_! I sucked him off; he wouldn't even lick me-"

"Pathetic. Absolutely _pathetic_."

"An' he tasted like rotten asparagus."

"That's just cruel for the audience at home, Seaweed Slut. What about _you_?" A nip and a gnash and a gnaw.

Hungering for her.

"I think I'd care for a little wakamezake, y'know, Noriko?" And how can we not linger upon this delectation?

"Nga? I- I don't got any sake-"

"We _do_ have vodka. And, I'll be candid... Sake just ain't enough, anyway." So she must be kissed.

Lips dragged to lips.

The vodka dragged from the table.

Flesh _torn_ to the bathroom.

It is shelter.

Architectural succor.

 _Sanctuary_ for the impoverished student. A rarefied bliss in an economy bathroom, and it is still the sainted Shintō ideal.

It _is_ a fucking bath; it is tiles effulgent with anal-retentive zeal for its ritual purification. It is a generous basin that could only entice the flesh.

It is her body.

Mine.

Clothing shed like moulting serpents. Twist around her; coil and settle upon her flesh in great muscular cables. Know the simple elemental _candor_ in this. In the nakedness in its symmetry; in the exposure now, such as it's of even the meagrest _glint_ of meaning.

It would be something so trivial, wouldn't it? Every inch but for the most achingly _banal_ kiss of flesh in its succulent dusky lips and her peachy nipples with a bikini. And this is still _decency_ in its sainted guise. It is thought, malleable and forever not twisted but merely unpretentiously broken on decorum's, on _convention_ 's, axis.

It is to know its blood poison defiling cells resolute in independence's affectation.

But all is weak.

All is _human_.

To know this; to _succumb_ to this.

And there is perhaps strength in it. It is the prisoner's in admitting forever an unvarnished reality that others have shrugged away in their clutching plea for numbness, for amnesia. Is there worth and validation in it?

Ultimately, it is the throngs' neurotic superstition swallowed down and transmuted and still fundamentally its essence.

It is the delusion that _It will be known_ , not as shame but some sainted distinction. Glorious words; brilliant praise; incandescent lyricism will ultimately be written of you. But it's idiocy, isn't it, to delude yourself?

Rebellion is never rewarded.

It is forever with a scowling opprobrium for all but those that court political power, that merely fashion a new orthodoxy. Even the May Fifteenth madmen, the February Twenty Sixth coupsters, they were little more than trend's agents, than a movement's spearhead. It is not to know a novelty, the status quo's rejection, but only its quickening in this blood.

In the eleven fingers.

In collectivity praised and adulated and _heaved_ in a great sanguine flourish over the ideal named individuality. Individuality, _individuation_ , they are little more than mere figments. They are the wavelet's great delusion, tossed and churned and still receding irresistibly and ineluctably into the whole; they are the the penguin that anoints itself in a bit of ice and announces itself its own _novel_ beast.

It is all madness.

And still, still, she is here, and I am here. Humanity is not here. The junk slathers its dregs thick and sodden and staining over every fucking _inch_. The arteries heave with its rarefied wisdoms. I am _become_ it; and even in its recession, rinsed away with an act of ritual purification, not in cellular apoptosis but only with its implacable fervor for self-denial, it is here.

There should be apoptosis.

Death.

Death.

It is...

It is the _sublimest_ algolagnia, isn't it? The act of self-immolation, of annihilation? The Buddhist monks genuflecting in their serene obliteration, content to anoint faith in its abstractions as a grandeur surpassing their very _flesh_ in its perpetuation.

The meat machinery betrayed.

She is delicious. She will be admired; her shoulders are a subdued wet little _crack_ against the wall, and fingers and hands grope with a relentless malign frenzy. I am the invader; I am the disease, also. I am the defilement and the desecration.

"How fucking _adorable_ you are, you know, Seaweed Slut." Adulate her with every whisper and murmur and sigh; fingers lace with hers; palms clamp together. It is a universe of sweat; air-conditioning is a corruption, a vagary in this glass-and-steel-and-concrete's perversion of the natural.

There is no nature here.

But it is uglier still; it is sinful in its alchemical conjurations.

"You're so beautiful, Noriko. Oh, oh, _oh_ , you are." And so the lips must be savored.

The mouth must be devoured; tongue plucked dragged _torn_ into the mouth's sheltering cradling wet inferno.

Down, down, down.

"I would _love_ a bit of wakamezake, y'know, Seaweed Slut." And there is only a command; it is something...

Something _beautiful_ in its gracelessness; something artful in its crudeness. Her ass' lush overripe roundness planted down on the bath's fringes. The thighs not splayed but _clasped_ together.

"A-ah, it's... I've never done this before, Orchid. Orchid. O-Orchid." Breath dragged deep; deeper than deep.

The bathroom perfumed with disinfectant's sharp tang.

With bicarbonate's salinity.

And the toes tremble; the vodka's cap slipped away again with its familiar coarse shrill rasp.

And it will be decanted; a bit, a bit, and still cradled oh so _sumptuously_ in that thickly matted heap of curls. Flourishing flowering; an achingly elegant act of levitation in the little water cradled in that oh so artful sentimental delta.

It is beautiful. A graceful thing.

An alluring thing.

Not pungent with lust's sticky aromas but only sharp and clarified with the vodka's cold kiss; an ethanol frenzy; a languor on the nostrils coiling and sputtering and _electric_ like the isopropyl's caress on the elbow.

Visceral.

Pavlovian.

The junk's ineluctable spearing brush.

The needle's kiss.

Blood plumes up; settles in the ambrosia as sacrifice without surrender, to be returned to the body. It is the Binding of Isaac.

And still, still, it is there.

Red.

Rich.

"Ngn... T-this feels so _weird_ , Orchid-"

"Does it?" Knelt now; fingers lace through hair in its immensity, heavy and thick and _black_. Brushed from my cheek.

Craning down, down.

And it is a fox's indulgence.

A wolf's, also.

Tongue outstretched; _grazing_ the puddle that has settled with sumptuous resilience there.

"A-ah!" And there is still an awareness of its displacement. Disturbed.

Trembling.

"A-ah, ah, oh, oh... Ngn... O-Orchid-"

"You're so _delighted_ to be my sake cup, huh? Maybe I should get the salt-"

"Hya!" Because there is a kiss; higher, and higher, dappling the belly in its roundness.

The navel is not a mere sharply graven divot.

She is...

Kissed with humanity's _ordinariness_.

Its simple sublime beauty.

"Ah, ah, Orchid, I... I feel... I feel like I'm gon' come, just from _that_!" With lips rubbery and tormented.

"Really?" As if it could be anything _but_ this.

An eye snapped closed in a quick blink.

Feasting.

Wet.

Squelching.

Messy.

Ravening. Tongue slathering and swaying and jabbing and stabbing, spearing deep like bullets raking through a surf frothing red with blood. It's to know her; more, and more, and more. Suctioning down the vodka not as its own indulgence but only passage to her body.

Kissing; kissing; kissing.

Slaver and stroke and stripe.

Peel apart her thighs.

There is a sense of the sublime; there is a drama that is the soul's levitation in this while the taiko in their great multitude pummel and hammer and _bellow_. Theirs is thunder's crash with lightning's sizzling blaze.

Know her.

Adore her.

In this moment.

In any other, perhaps; or perhaps in absolutely _no_ other. Her knees straining; thighs quavering; legs rearing up, up, up, limning a crazed convulsive arc, swept over my shoulders.

"Y-you're so fuckin' strong, Orchid! O-Orchid!" Eyes craned up; _devouring_ even her stare.

Swallowing the universe.

And is consuming _me_.

At once, at once, that Ouroboros delirium. There is nothing else in this instant, this strange thrall that is not narcissism and is not selflessness. It is masturbating before a warped and deforming funhouse mirror.

Hers is an ordinariness.

And not at all.

She is beautiful.

Her fingers' talent is something that is not plastic, not prepackaged, not better-living-through-chemistry. Drawn deep into the bath arid of any dampness but ours; the unreality in its cold ceramic kiss on your ass. Tangled and twisted together; fingers grind upon one another; toes strain and spines arch and there is _collision_.

Battering, wet, pummeling.

Pussy and pussy; a sumptuous vertical kiss in its dizzying symmetries. Ground against her with a sordid _succulent_ squelch.

Spatter.

Pummel.

 _Pound_.

It is a ten minute honeymoon.

Who is she?

Who am _I_?

In this moment, meaning is suspended. Names melt away, dissolve and sluice away beyond your awareness.

Ah.

Ah!

Yes.

It is she.

It is I, also.

The Valkyrie's caress.

Feel the fingers grope.

Clench.

Spear deeper.

Hers is the Sword and the Spear; She, who hath no need for a Shield, for Death is neither Master nor Mistress. Hers is the Blade; hers is the Violence to be driven deep, deeper than deep. It is to know the truth in its most basal elemental guise rearing up from the fundament.

Ah.

Ah.

They are all dead.

So many have died.

And they are not here; they are here only in delusion's cradling caress.

Her toes twist.

Dragged up, up. We will writhe and pitch together and it is to savor her thighs' plumpness; her body; her tits' heavy fall over mine.

A kiss.

Tug nipples' plump warmth between your lips.

Eat her.

"I- I can't take anymore!" A wail; a tremor rearing up in huge crashing bulk through her.

"W-what-"

"I can't take anymore! P-please, please, please, I- I'm all fucked out!" Yowling, howling, and... And the time's passage defies anything like the coherent.

What does it matter?

While we have again slipped into that delirious carnal athleticism; while heels and toes grind and grate and clutch at the bathroom's clammy antiseptic face; while I am entwined with her, and she with me, and it is a Fox's Wedding.

The sweat rears up, flowers like rain.

"F-fuck it-"

"I- I'm serious. S-s-so fuckin' serious. Like- like, I mean, _like-I'm-gonna-fuckin'-die_ serious! Orchid, please! Please! C-can't take it! 's- 's-"

"Don't be such a _boy_." Tear into the flesh.

Grope at her.

 _Fall_ upon her.

There is a will to heave and writhe; hips clamped together; those lips sodden and sticky and _ground_ together.

"Don't be such a goddamn boy, whining like you think I give a shit that your cute lil' meat is just _toooo_ sensitive-"

"B-but it is!" Lips rubbery and trembling and... And there is a plea for mercy. The eyes flare with tears. "I wan' ya ta stop! Please!"

"All right." So shall it be.

"Y-y'mean it-"

"I guess I've forgotten what it's like to be with, well... Would you like to be my girlfriend, Noriko?" There's only awe.

Incredulity.

"W-wha? Y'teasin' me or somethin'?"

"No. I'm not. Mind if I smoke a joint?"

"Nah. J-jus', y'know, don't... Don't do it in the bathroom. 's my special place." The plea is anemic, tormented.

Teeth _rattle_ , draped in an arctic haze.

"Never fucked a girl before, y'know?" Standing; or it is an ambition to it. A hand outstretched to her, and it is to ease her up, up, up.

"No?"

"N-n-no. No, no, no. I- I mean, y'know... 's... I'm so shy. An' boys really _do_ suck. Right?" Is it a plea for validation?

"The bulk."

"Damn. So 's true, huh? They're all lazy an' stuff?"

"Not every one of them. But, yeah. On balance. A selfish and complacent race undeserving of a _morsel_ of the resources they gorge themselves on; and we simply tumble behind them into the abyss. It's painfully pathetic. It really is.

"Their self-satisfaction with the hips' primitive pumping. Their only asset is their warmth. Care for a joint?"

"I- I don't really like smoking. Anything." Settling on the sofa with knees shuddering.

With the universe melting down into a gelatin mist; with the walls quaking and the floor simply _bowing_ underfoot.

There is not the junk's deformation.

There is not the psychedelic's frenzy.

There is only... This. The Thai Stick kissed with opium's treacly grace; a brittle lissome paper figure tucked between the lips, a lighter gathered in the hand's quick decisive excavation, a fucking _strip mining_ enterprise, through a pocket.

Wheezing; a tormented asthmatic rasp.

Once.

And again.

Paper crackles and creases and blackens with its infernal caress; it speaks in perfume's fine phantasmagorical gradations, coiling through the nostrils, smeared on the lungs.

A shiver.

A _gasp_.

"That smells really- really _sweet_." Her blinking incredulity is artistry, also. An awareness, perhaps with something like Gentileschi's eyes, of her hips' voluptuousness; the long shapely legs; the deeper perfection in the imperfection.

Perhaps order is to be kissed in its meager measures in entropy's dreaded wickedness.

Yes.

"It is. Would you care for a drag?"

"Nah. I- I mean, y'know, don' wanna be a square, but it just don't look too nice. My mom an' dad smoke. I _hate_ it."

"I can extinguish it-"

"Nah. Don't do that. I, ah..." And it is to admire the slim arms laced around her knees; definition dwells in another universe. There is not even the faintest _kiss_ through her biceps' soft sleek slenderness. "Y'know, it was kinda weird." Laughter.

Fragile.

Brittle.

"Oh?"

"Y'askin' me to be your girlfriend. 'cause you're... Y'know... Rich an'... An' beautiful... An'... Kinda outta-this-world."

"What does that mean?"

"Y'don't feel real. Like I'm gonna wake up an' I'll just be giggling into my futon or something."

"Maybe." There is forever reality's subjectivity.

Aspirations.

Hopes.

"But maybe you'll be gone, also, Noriko. Don't take it as an insult when I say that you're just... Refreshingly _ordinary_."

"H-how so? How's anybody _not_ take that as an insult?" Brows knitting.

"You didn't walk out of a manga's pages; that's what I mean. You're human. You're not... Not a _caricature_ of an ideal. You have defects. Your body's not _perfect_ ; it's more beautiful to me for that. It's..." Eyes slip away from hers. "I'm not normal, you know.

"I can't _hack_ it as a normal person."

"Ah... Whaddaya mean, Orchid-"

"Just _that_. D-do you think I'd survive a nine-to-five job? Do you think... I didn't even graduate from high school, you know."

"But you're-"

"I took the entrance exams. But I didn't graduate. Everything just melted down; everything _imploded_ in my life. Reality, you know. _My_ reality. My friends, ah, well... I didn't really _have_ friends. My- my _best_ friend, well, I met her when she was ten or so.

"I'm closer to thirty than twenty, Noriko."

"N-no shit. But Kisaki- _sensei_ looks so young-"

"Yeah, well, _she's_ closer to her mid-fifties than her mid-thirties. And my dad, too. None of us really _looks_... Hell, it's because we're _not_."

"Gonna tell me you're some kinda science experiment?"

"No. Not exactly." A drag drawn deep; deeper than deep.

Bottoming out in your belly in its feathery hot grace.

"So, ah, what, then? I mean... I'm normal?"

"Well, largely. You're... You don't dwell in the twilight, much less the night. You're not _banal_ ; that's not what I mean. Not _mundane_. You're an artist. But your eyes haven't been brutally flayed of every indulgent bit of fiction.

"That's what I mean, Noriko."

"Guess not." The eyes slip away. "I mean, um... Girlfriends, that's..."

"I'm not demanding that it be exclusive. I just... I like you, Noriko."

"Like you, too. Like, a lot." There's a laughter coiling through the nostrils.

Flaring from the lips.

"I'm glad, Noriko. I really am. 's, ah... You know, I should just _tell_ you. It's something... It would be so _meaningful_ if I were a normal person. But it's nothing. Bellow it to the media, and it won't mean shit.

"I work as a dominatrix. Mistress Orchid. Not for cash. Just..." There is not a _because_. "Only _because_."

"W-whoa. Is... I mean, 's kinda like a call-girl, isn't it?"

"If call-girls abuse on command, yeah." A chortle swallowed down.

"Y-you're serious? So, y'know, it's- it's the _get on your knees an' bark like a dog_ sorta thing-"

"You read too much manga. You really do."

"Pardon _me_ for not bein' all dissolute an' shit."

"And shit is right."

"So, ah, you're not gonna be, y'know... Faithful to me?"

"Are you to me?"

"I dunno. I mean, uh, 's just... I woulda been all faithful to my _hand_ if you hadn't come tonight." So to speak.

"We'll have a date, Noriko. You and I." Standing.

"You gonna go?" Is that unease's neurotic self-flagellating kiss, the eyes flitting up, curtained in leaden lashes? Lips pursing now; there is already disappointment's _certitude_ coalescing.

"I'm waiting for you to unroll the futon."


	7. Alraune

There is... Hunger. Imperishable; implacable. It is a clamoring, a lust, an esurience that surpasses anything so trivial as merely those gustatory pangs. The belly's pleas are a meaningless extravagance when the body _rages_ ; when the meat and bone and blood not merely transcend and not simply _eclipse_ the mind but ultimately are its possession, are a wicked gnashing snapping immanence lacing and coiling and sluicing through its every reach. The soul does not shrivel; it is merely a novel soil to be fertilized in this, to be watered and uplifted.

All is transitory, isn't it? All will ultimately melt away. There is only the essence of life's passage up, up, up, 'til it can no longer even be tasted; 'til it has soared over the highest shadow. It will not be the Last Enemy That Shall Be Destroyed. It only _is_. Ultimately, forever, it simply _is_. You will not be; in an instant, and whatever the disease's lingering defilement, it is still this sudden crashing absolute, you will not.

What was will not be.

It is something supreme, binary. It merely can be. It cannot be until it is; it will never be known in its scope 'til its great implacable fingers rear up to swallow the body, to sunder the spirit from the meat.

Or perhaps you are entombed there. What does it matter?

"Ngn... Ahn... It's- I'm gonna fuckin' _die_ if you keep lickin' me like th-that, Orchiid!" Cooing; keening. A delirium in her long shapely legs arching, arching, scribing a sumptuous bowing canopy over my shoulders.

Skin upon skin.

Sweat _swarms_ ; the flesh is splayed, delicious soft plump _thick_ lips carved apart, fuchsia concentricities darkening _deepening_ more more more more more, adored and adorned with the tongue's quick nimble caresses, squelching and spattering and wet and exuberantly self-consciously _messy_. It is to plant yourself before a buffet with bare hands and to plunge and stripe and pitch and excavate into the stews into the soups into every offering.

Smear yourself with your meal.

Feast.

Become it, also. Admire the spine's shudder and quaver and the graceful lush geometries in their twist and convolutions; savor the convulsions spasmodic and shivering and _explosive_. There is a wheeling circuitousness in it. The explosion, the mushroom-cloud _immensity_ in lust, it swallows itself, crushes down down down into an implosive _nothing_ that surpasses imagination in its concentration, its supersaturation, its fundamental _tininess_. Its great gravity gropes and tugs and swallows down down down.

Her body.

Mine.

Eyes glazed and crazed and _quivering_ with it; the lashes heavy and beating quick stripes over satiny cheeks scarlet-stained and washed with sweat's vast burbling seas, swept over every inch, almost _curdling_ in its elemental enormity.

"A-ah, ah, I- I really fuckin' can't- can't _take_ it anymore, Orchid! Orchid! Orchid!" And still, still, the body's hungers defy anything so prosaic as mere _satiety_. It cannot be; it _will not_ be. This is something preciouser still.

It is not the meat machinery's compulsions, not its programmatic dimensions, but something that rears up, that _races_ from the will. It is something surpassing the flesh's brittle tissues; it roars and heaves and howls with inexpressible tyranny in the soul's convolutions and vagaries and vicissitudes; it is not the nerves in their twanging flayed torment, overstrung and overtensioned, but only one word.

More.

More.

More.

It is language's rarefied conquest of the flesh.

"A-ahn, Orchid, y-you're really drivin' me crazy. I... I feel like- like I'm gonna _pee_!" But it isn't this. It is with fingers' expert strokes; it is with ministrations that push up up up and are urged deeper still; it is with an expertise that alone can be found in the intuitive, in this elegance that dwells alone in the body.

Shuddering and shivering and it truly is to know the sublime, the celestial. Tongue dragged up up up; coiling and teasing and _twisting_ with a plucking nimble elegance around a pearl that will not politely recede into its cloistered coverture.

It is a scream.

A wail.

A _howl_.

"W-what the... Ngn... W-why aren't'cha stopping, Orchid?! P-please, please, please!" While toes do not curl, no, no, no _simple_ surrender to this. They and her fine long slim fingers are simply splayed _sprawling_ out.

The universe shudders and fissures and there is something explosive now.

All radiates from that core.

"W-waha, ah, ah, 's- 's so fuckin' _weeird_!" With rubbery lips and glazed tear-stained eyes and it's something almost cartoonish in its carnal perfections, a manga-anointed wisdom, and it is still here. It is the tongue flitting and flickering up up up; it is the very _peak_ jabbed and stroked and fingers, two, two, in their sublimity, swept and _jammed_ against that flesh that strains and bubbles in its thick hot spongy grace.

"A-ah, ah, ah, I- I'm... 'm seriously _coming_!" And it can only be invited; can only be coaxed higher, higher, higher, a Project Orion madness, rearing aloft on its own explosive frenzy, quivering and shuddering and spraying up, up, up.

Huge crashing smears swept arcing over the brow.

A sticky creamy slathering on my cheek.

Once.

Again.

"A-ah, ah, holy _fuck_. H-holy, holy, I- I really... Ngn... Y-you're gonna..." Because it is not merely _coming_.

Not _going_.

Coming and going and wheeling around again. And again. And again. Battered and battering and it is to know a perfect duality, quicksilver grace in its mirrored perfection cohering and it is to glance at the mirror and yourself and to know nothing of which you even are.

You are.

Here.

There.

Twisting apart into a shivering sexual bilocation.

Vacillating with such celerity between them that the middle-ground has simply melted into nothing; there is no longer a transition.

"Y-you're- you're drivin' me crazy! C-can't ta-aaa-aahake..." Again; and again; and again.

It is more than a kiss.

It is more than merely _expertise_.

"S-stop! Orchid, you've gotta _stop_! I'm really gonna pee!" And, well, who cares?

"So do it. In my mouth." Urging her; clamoring, clutching, and there's something... Something so _exotic_ in this. It is not unfamiliar; not an imperishable fixture. A strange and irrepressible compulsion.

It's to find purchase not on anything as absolute, as facile, as a life preserver in pummeling breakers.

It's to know the driftwood's ragged geometry while the salt spray spears into your eyes; while there is not merely blindness but _oblivion_.

Kiss and kiss and it's with jaws wrenched apart; it's your tongue lolling out and dragging _her_ , the hips' lovely sumptuous communion, the lips and her simple _flesh_ deeper, deeper, deeper.

A sudden _rush_.

Hot and bitter and noxious and it's still _her_ body.

Reality warps itself.

Poison no longer is.

I am become it.

I am _suffused_ with it.

"W-wah... It's..." A few pattering droplets; it is a universe of transgression.

"H-holy fuck. Holy _fuck_!" Wilting back.

And now, now, the body's thresholds are transcended.

She levitates.

She has been _ground_ into nothing; the knees slack and the flesh spasming with a few fitful spurts.

Stillness.

"W-wha... Wah... Whoa... Whuh..." Gurgling; the voice has imploded into a pitch that flourishes from a gravel quarry burbling with water in rasping silty tendrils, racing up up up from the earth's bowels. "O-oh, oh, oh, Orchid, 's... 's so fuckin' _intense_." Cradling her now.

It is...

It is delicacy.

 _Warmth_.

Sensitivity. Ah, ah, what enchanting perversion, what _defilement_ that is. To know the shoulders' satin warmth against your breasts' flattening softness. Arms laced around her waist; palms clamped on her belly.

"Ah- ah, 's so fuckin' weird, Orchid." Voice a coiling sullen little whisper, reaching out to graze your ears.

"Oh? Is it _that_ weird?"

"Never done somethin' like this before." While the dawn intrudes in its gathering sticky tangerine gradations; it is twilight upon twilight upon twilight. Familiar smoky thick grass-smoke vagaries have melted away; the sun is no longer something alien for a nyctophobic society forever huddled in its own neon Helios' wreathing embrace, wicked warmthless effulgence without luster, dim and flat and _shallow_.

A banality in this.

Feel her belly's softness; lush and still lean but kissed with _presence_.

"You're laughin', aren't'cha, Orchid? W-what? 's 'cause I'm a lil' tubby-"

"You're _not_ tubby. You just have _softness_. I, ah..."

"Do _not_ say somethin' like, _I like girls with meat on 'em_." Petulant; indignant.

"If I did, I definitely wouldn't be with _you_. You're just... Beautiful, you know, Noriko." Palms slipping up, up, up. "And these _adorable_ udders-"

"Tits. 's all about titties." Her eyes cast back; an ambition to that sublimity in their communion.

A glance becomes a stare.

Kiss her; kiss her.

"Oh, yeah, _that_ ain't even a little hypocritical, Seaweed-"

"I- I kinda... You calling me that makes me feel a lil' weird, y'know, Orchid." Another; another; another.

Wet.

Sticky.

"How so?"

"Gettin' bullied. Like you said. An'... An' I can't keep- keep my head together. I get all- all fuzzy an' stupid an' I... I can't control my accent-"

"So?"

"Like, it's embarrassing-"

"It's cute." Teeth settling around her jaw's graceful beveled geometries; a quick nip and nibble. "It really is. That accent. But, ah, I'd rather that you grow your hair-"

"So now I'm your pr-property?" A gasp; a shiver; her voice simply _melts_ into it.

"No. I just..."

"Y'got a type?" It's more than a little mischievous.

"Don't you?"

"I didn't _think_ so. 's kinda weird. I mean, y'know, 'm not sayin' I was always, like, y'know, _straight_. 's just, um, I never thought _this'd_ happen-"

"Sounds like a _Penthouse Forum_ letter."

"A wha?"

"Nothing. Nothing. I, ah, I _love_ Japanese girls-"

"Dude, you're Japanese-"

"I mean... The _Yamato Nadeshiko_ aesthetic, y'twit." Palms _clapped_ on her tits now.

Digging.

Sinking.

An act of _implosion_.

"Ngn... Y-yeah, that- that feels-"

"You _love_ being bullied, don't'cha, Noriko?"

"Goddammit, I guess I do. I- I always kinda... Kinda... I mean... When you call m-me, um, stuff like _Seaweed Slut_ , an'..." And there is a heat.

Infernal; huge; _flowering_.

Blasting with a vast bubbling scarlet into her cheeks.

"An' I feel it. It's this- this weird _sloppiness_ , I guess, in my belly. I feel like I'm gonna be sick; I can't get enough of it-"

"It's that delectable algolagnia. It's a fanaticism; it's a _fetish_ ; it's an obsession." Fingers slip down, down, down, now, coiling together over her belly. "Isn't it? You're dazzling, you know, Noriko-"

"D-didn't you call me _plain_?"

"I said _ordinary_ ; there's nothing _plain_. I, ah..." It's lips brushed over her jaw; it's the tongue's quick flitting heat staining her right ear's fragile lobe. "I feel so strange, Noriko, you know. I feel..." And it is nothing so _grandiose_ in its qualification, its embellishment.

"Feel _what_?"

"I feel." It is simple.

This is the only answer.

"Ah, I mean, I- I don't get it-"

"I _feel_." Not the junk's receding _heat_ ; not the sensation prickling up, no longer absolutely exactingly polarized but its familiar jumble, its muddled addled _hugeness_ in its simple scope. Its fullest authenticity.

Not the anesthesia in Saint Morpheus and its diablerie with a bit of German alchemy. It is only its most elemental inverted numbness.

It _is_.

It is a shadowless vastness; it is a tropical inferno that batters and roast and roils and roars and _bakes_ the flesh into scrawling porous wreckage, into fissured sand and cracking crusts and reality invades.

It is to know the body as a heap of sores.

Of scabs.

Of festering pustular wreckage.

And still, still, you are human.

"I- I don't exactly get it, then, Orchid-"

"Yes, you do. I _feel_ ; it's not exactingly something that I taste _often_. A rarefied indulgence. It's just- you're a _buffet_ of it, you know, Noriko- _chan_. You're swarmed with it; you _riot_ with sensation's authenticity. It's so fucking strange.

"But it's true." And it is not with acrimony but only a craving for the eyes that flesh is prised from flesh; that fingers lace together, the sheet rumpled and sloughing off across the tatami. "It is true, Noriko."

"I, ah..." The eyes are not downcast; not averted. But there is an unease scrawling up through the cheeks.

"What?" It's with inquisition; it's with patience; it's with a craving for a joint. Not for the needle's transient pain, its sharp prick admission to a numbing oblivion in its sumptuous supersaturated _attenuated_ sensations.

"I guess I never thought I'd hear somethin' like that from you, Orchid."

"We've known each other for a night-"

"I _know_. I'm such a dork." And there is laughter, also. "I guess- I guess I think I _know_ chicks like you. Maybe I do."

"Maybe."

"But _you_ , well, I can't really figure out."

"It's that convoluted, Noriko?"

"Maybe I'm slow or somethin'. I dunno. It's just... You're not, um, _you_. Or, ah, that is... It's just... Girls like you-"

"What a _gratifying_ collective it is."

"Well, I mean... 's just... There's-"

"There are generalities. I know; I know that. I can already paint it for you without even the tiniest _glint_ of artistic talent. We're the long-legged gazelles, the unperturbed and imperturbable thoroughbreds whose long lunging gaits take us _weeelll_ away from any trouble.

"From anything like real pain or misery or ordeal the _normal_ people suffer, right? The chicks who don't need _anything_ like talent. Who're not just not _penalized_ for having none but a pretty face and manga-perfect bodies, but are rewarded for it.

"The idols; the sainted ideals who're deified merely for _being_. They're a materialistic culture's pantheon; they're our collective hopes' repository, right? Rewarded for the mere act of breathing. Because real worth, real meaning, real _humanity_ has simply evaporated beside reality in government policy.

"Because belief has simply displaced _everything_. That's our essence; we're stamped with it. Belief. Craving. And I'm one of those beneficiaries, right? It could be AV or as a call-girl or just a professional girlfriend, a trophy wife, some talentless caterwauling little slut whose legs are an object of public fanaticism and whose life is more oppressively governed than a North Korean first lady?

"Right? But I'm _not_ one of those. I'm..."

Candor's sharp pangs.

It cannot be.

Ah, ah, ah, the cliché.

 _If you knew, I'd have to kill you._

But it's the simple elemental fucking _truth_.

Yes.

I would.

"I'm not a celebrity; I'm _invisible_. It's quite the feat with mommy dearest as such a publicity whore."

"Well, I mean, y'know... She _is_ a great attorney-"

"Oh, she is. It isn't fair that her conscience is as denuded as a wadi in the summer. She's really a little monstrous, honestly. She's just a whore to her accounts; she has no humanity at all about her clients. I know, I know, how _appalling_ for a daughter to say that.

"But it's true."

"Ah, I- I guess-"

"Imagine the _innocents_ that're railroaded, fuck, it's not even _that_ delicate. It's more _The Perils of Pauline_ ; it's ugly. Wicked. The guilty slither away, and the innocent are punished. That's how it works. The government's a heap of shit.

"This one; everyone else's. I've met pimps that're honester than most cops." Slipping back now onto the mattress. "I think mom actually had something like idealism once."

"Ah..." And there's only a taut twanging sense of despair in it.

"I know, I know, you, ah, you have a celebrity crush on my mom, right?"

"Well, yeah. Kinda. It's just... She's so beautiful; she's so graceful; she's so _powerful_ -"

"Yeah, she's Ivan The Terrible in size six heels." The smile's slow, syrupy. "She is gorgeous; I would _never_ argue that she ain't."

"I guess, I mean... I like the idea that _someone_ challenges the courts. Even if it feels kinda hopeless. I heard that she's won murder cases before. And with your dad, too."

It is a pocket nimbus unfurling.

Flowering into being.

A huge saturnine _haze_ curtaining us.

"Ah, well..." Her eyes _now_ very very comfortably downcast. "Did I say somethin'?"

"I hate him. It's not- it's not really even _fair_ , I think, now. Knowing about their adorable little _arrangement_. It's more the mortifying memory of... Of every kernel of that idealism. My youth, you know. It was just _obsessed_ with that ideal.

"With the _perfect family_. A tee-vee-peddled fiction. That's all it really was; that's all it _could_ have been. It was humiliating; it was a universe of empathy for mom. A sense of _revulsion_ for her, for him. She was the long-suffering wife whose husband was little better than a stray chihuahua.

"And _he_ was the asshole who- who was still _redeeming_. He just didn't understand her sainted virtue. That was it."

There is silence.

Not tranquil; not rancorous.

Patient and attentive.

"And, ah... It was all a _fiction_. My fiction. Every ordeal; every conniving bit of arranging and wheedling and beseeching and... And it was all just _shit_. They hated each other; they had no real _rapport_. It was lust.

"That's it. Supersaturated idiot animal lust. She loved his magnetism; she didn't love _him_. Not really. Or maybe she did. But it wasn't a _poignant_ romance. It was hunger. It was craving. It was _that_ ; only that. And it's just...

"It's mortifying for _me_. To know that. To know that I'd wrought my entire life, my... My expectations around _that_." The blue-eyed liar's simple wickedness. "The advantages taken? It was because of _them_.

"The need to know that I could be entitled to that sainted fairytale romance. But it's all bullshit. I'm not one of those trite hard-edged pseudo-cynical morons that thinks simple _denial_ is reality. It's not.

"It's just... It wasn't _mine_."

"Whoa." There is a tremor in the eyes. "I- I mean, y'know, _my_ family seriously sucks. My dad does nothing but work; my mom's the usual bitter miserable housewife. I never heard _anything_ from her but what a huge fuckin' loser I am because I'm fat and- and I'm an artist and I didn't get into Todai or Kyodai or...

"Or didn't really even _bother_ with all of the exams. She thinks I'm stupid."

"Well, you're not." Probably. "I think-"

"Oh, _nice_."

"I'm teasing you." Dragged over her lap with your own will, your own conviction. Fingers outstretched, brushed over her cheeks. "I, ah, I don't think you are, Noriko. I really don't."

"Y'really don't?" With eyes huge; voice a trilling little coo.

"Are you being facetious?"

"Sorta-kinda? I- I'm not exactly _obsessed_ with what other people think of me. But 's nice to hear. Y'know, from my girlfriend." And it's a simple truth. "So, ah... You're really a dominatrix?"

"Yeah. Does that bother you?"

"If it did, I mean, I would've said so. 's kinda... Kinda interesting. So, ah..." A swallow scribes its distending passage through her long slender neck; it's a quality like a demented flamboyant frigatebird. "I mean, uh..."

"Yes?"

"So, y'know, what do you do?"

"Abuse my clients."

"Sounds like _paradise_. I hate the- the old bitches and the jealous housewives and the neurotic oldsters and the creepy clammy-handed old guys an' the asshole kids and everyone else at that fuckin' restaurant. I really do.

"It's _disgusting_. Being forced to serve them with that gooey plastic smile. _Oh, thank you, Customer- **san**_. You _asshole_." Pitch plunging down down down like a ballistic missile introducing itself to New York City to that sumptuous bit of acrimony. "I'm serious.

"I fuckin' _hate_ it. They're such morons; every one of 'em."

"It's... Well, it's a little more vigorous than _that_. It's tyranny. It's oppression. It's for them to know that Mistress Orchid is... Is their mother; their sister; their Empress; their _everything_. It's for them to know fear in its fullest _immanence_.

"It should be a possession. To beat and kick and slap and punch and batter and _rape_ them."

"So, uh, y-y'really fuck 'em?"

"If it occurs to me. Yes. It's _my_ judgment; not theirs. I'm not a whore."

"Oh. I- I mean, yeah, 's... I didn't _think_ you were-"

"Yeah, you did. But it's fine. I've never sold my body. I've sold my dignity. I've sold my labor. I've sold my time. But never _that_. It wouldn't be worthwhile, anyway. I've never really _understood_ it. That perversion.

"That ugly selfish idiocy; that _contentment_ to jerk off with a warm body. That's it. There's no lust, and no desire in it. It just degrades hunger and sex. It's as meaningful as eating your bodyweight in McDonalds shit.

"It's garbage. Better-living-through-chemistry."

"Huh. I guess so. I- I mean... I dunno. When I- when I came to Tokyo, I, ah... I thought about goin' down to a Soapland or something."

"With a chick?"

"Yeah. I went to a host club once. It was _really_ mortifying. This- this sorta washed-up blow-dried guy with bleached-blond highlights, he- he said I was _the prettiest girl he ever saw_. He looked _so_ hungover, I just...

"I felt kinda bad for him. I was there with these _gorgeous_ chicks; I didn't even notice him. I just kinda nodded when he tried to, I dunno, _flirt_? But it was like flirting with Asimo or something. It was just all mechanical an' junk.

"Totally weird; but _they_ were amazing. This- this office lady, I mean, she was... She looked like your mom. With these long _long_ gaudy-ass fingernails. They were teal, I think. But her tits were _huge_ ; an' she had these endless legs.

"And this tight blouse and short skirt. High heels. And then there was a girl I _know_ musta only been in high school; she looked like some kinda junior idol. _Right_ into AV or gravure or whatever. I was just staring at 'em the whole night.

"I think I bought... One or two little drinks or something for this poor guy? It was just _sad_. I thought- I thought it'd be like going to a brothel or something. There'd be _heaps_ of man-meat to choose from; I could just pick one, or, ooh, maybe two, and they'd...

"They'd bang me like a drum all night."

"Ah, _no_. It's the law-"

"Fuckin' _dumb_ law. How does it make sense that you can get a hummer for cash, but you can't fuck?"

"Ask the wizened old fucks who can't even _struggle_ to flog it upright for more than a few minutes. Ask them why we're to believe we can't be entrusted with a glimpse of bare genitalia, just to admire it in its beauty, but queues of hundreds of pot-bellied assholes jerking off on some eighteen-year-old's face is _fine_.

"With absolutely _no_ corruption of public morals."

"Is our country the _dumbest_ in the world, Orchid- _chan_?" Hah.

"You've never been introduced to China or Korea, I guess."

"Close enough." And she must be kissed. It is an act of levitation; rearing up, up, up, spine a sharp arch. "Close enough, right, Orchid- _chan_? I- you don't hate that, right? 's not about formality or whatever. Like, I just think it's _cute_.

" _Chan_ an' all that. Nobody ever called me that. 'cept that freaky English teacher asshole. An' the worst is that he didn't even _speak_ English. Just the usual formulaic stuff."

"Did he wear?"

"Oh, _yeah_. An', y'know, I was kinda pissed off about it. I thought, _Like, why does he need to wear a rubber? I'm a total virgin._ "

"Naïve-"

"Tell me about it. I'm happy now. I mean, whaddaya do when, y'know, you're _dumb_?"

"You know what happens. A doctor's note; someone excavating through your fucking cervix with a goddamn vacuum. 'cause the fat old bald men in the government'll approve Rogaine and Viagra in an _instant_.

"RU486? Please."

A sigh.

Long.

Lingering.

"W-whoa. That sounds-"

"I had an abortion. Yeah. Why the hell do you think I had a tubal ligation? It wasn't the pain; it sure as hell wasn't the _adorable little life_." There is a venom in this. "No one should have children. _Ever_. Children are a disease.

"A metabolic affliction; a biologic malady. They're a corruption on this planet. A cancer. Endlessly self-perpetuating. No one wants children. My parents didn't; your parents didn't." The blue-eyed liars' sure as hell didn't. "Children are an obligation.

"They're a global hecatomb in tribute to the state's grandeur. They're _labor_. We're machinery, endlessly tumbling off the line. The most pathetic pauper and the most glorious heir or heiress, they're _absolutely_ alike.

"Replaceable parts. That's it. We're an industrial ideal. Feed us replaceable nourishment, and we'll shit out more and more and more replaceable lives. I'd... I have a fantasy, you know, Noriko."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. It's a disease; it will _scythe_ through this world. The Y chromosome, that _diseased_ genetic vestige, it'll be exterminated. And women will finally be liberated. To tyrannize one another or to dwell in a perfected Utopia, well, that's their problem.

"But the disease, the _desire_ , that shackles us to them will just melt into nothing. Either that, or there'll be a nuclear war. I'd love to see it. It's our Original Sin, isn't it? Our _modernity_ was born in nuclear hellfire.

"We abused the Hiroshima and Nagasaki survivors because we're afraid of them. They're our 'Adam and Hawa."

"Who?"

"Adam and Eve-"

"Why'd'ja say that, then?"

"'cause those are their names. It's, ah... My friend, Ayumi? She's a theology student. I think religion's contagious."

"Ah. Uh, I'm not really religious. Are you?"

"No. No. Not really. It's never been _meaningful_ to me. Faith is... It's a disease. It's a facile rationale for everything. Don't believe in your power; believe in god's. And, of course, the hucksters' that personally _commune_ with gods.

"'cause they say they do."

"Ngn... You're gonna piss people off, y'know, talkin' like that. I- I'm kinda hungry." Announced in a deep gurgling duet from her belly.

"I _noticed_. I, ah..."

There's a chirrup.

Familiar.

It's reality's cold hand clamped on your shoulder.

"Whazzat?" Silence.

And another warble.

And silence.

And another.

Prolonged.

"So, ah..."

"It's my phone." It is stirring; forlorn, patient.

Sullen.

Fingers outstretched. Clutching at purchase on this parallel reality.

"So, ah, that's... Business? Or- or somethin'?" The eyes are immense.

Imploring.

"Yes." That's the chime's meaning.

Its only worth.

"Hello?" And she's beautiful in her repose; a half-sit-up posture.

The belly's definition is a graceful sleek roundness; her hips' succulent rich _plumpness_ enchants.

The eyes' luster.

The smile's timid glint.

Even the perfectly imperfect dentition.

"Ah, um, M-Mistress Orchid?" And it is reality's collision with reality.

They are not; neither can quite aspire to this absolutism. It is to know not one foot tucked in one and one in another.

It simply _is_.

Riven apart.

"Yuki- _tan_. It's you. I haven't heard your slutty gurgling for days now. I'd begun to fear that you'd forgotten about your obligation to me. Not the cash; _that_ has been more than generous. But that doesn't entitle you to _slacken_ ; you can't buy these _lapses_ , you stupid fucking dull-eyed _cow_. You'd be absolutely useless if it weren't for those huge goddamn udders.

"For those _delicious_ proportions." And there is a tension gathering in Noriko's cheeks.

There is a mirror's collision with a mirror; it is not for the universe to melt down in antimatter's communion, but only for the eyes in their mercury fiction to peer into one another.

To admire the rarefied geometries.

"I- I'm so sorry, Mistress Orchid. I- I really am. I really didn't mean t-to be-"

" _I_?!" The rage flourishes; it must. " _I_?! Who the _**fuck**_ granted you that right? You're not an _I_ ; you're nothing but property. You're a fucking _pet_ who can bathe and feed herself. You're a fucking _animal_. Do you understand me, you stupid piece of shit housewife?!

"Did I hear an _I_ from you, whore?!"

"N-no. No. M-Mistress Orchid, Yuki- _tan_ was- was being stupid." The jaws' tremor betray; the lips' numbness; the tongue's lolling madness.

" _Being_ stupid? That'd imply there's anything _but_ stupidity. There are only gradations in idiocy. The only reason I wouldn't give you a lobotomy is because I'd rather not fucking _feed_ your drooling sloppy feeding-hole.

"That's all it is." Noriko's eyes averted; the cheeks flower with carmine. "You're nothing but a pretty face and a beautiful body to be abused."

"Y-Yuki- _tan_ is-"

"Y'know, Yuki- _tan_ , I think I'll put you on the speaker. I'm sitting in a restaurant now-"

"N-n-no! No! P-please, please, please!" Is this authentic anguish, or only the delirious algolagnia in the rust-feathered blade dragged deeper, deeper, deeper?

The simple delirium in the teeth like barbed fangs prodding and _probing_ the maimed and tormented wound raked into your lips, your cheeks.

Pulling.

Tugging.

While the eyes bubble with tears and the toes curl and lust _weeps_ from between quivering thighs.

"Oh, you're already _on_ the speaker. Are you finished with our little fandango now, Yuki- _tan_?" It is a simple truth.

A thumb slipped over the key; and her voice flares into a fine sharp clarity for Noriko's indulgence, also.

Still.

Trembling.

"A-ahn, Yuki- _tan_ is... Is ready to take her punishment, M-M-Mistress Orchid-"

"Good _girl_. Where are you _right_ now?"

"Sitting at home. Yuki- _tan_ is sitting at home-"

"Clothed?"

"Yes, Mistress Orchid. Clothed with- with what Mistress Orchid always wants. Yuki- _tan_ is dressed like a designer streetwalker; like a fuck-doll with a big big big expense account. With... With violet stockings and nice high high _high_ heels. They're so tall, Yuki- _tan_ can barely walk. An'..."

Swallowing.

Slowly.

"And a bustier. All of it's violet. E-even Yuki- _tan_ 's shoes. She- she found a nice leather pair-"

"You filthy fucking _whore_. Your cunt's _sopping_ , isn't it?"

"Yees!" Warbling. Keening.

"When did it start?"

"It hasn't stopped. Not since you- you abused Yuki- _tan_ ; not since you took Yuki- _tan_ as a pathetic paying slave!"

"Good _girl_. So, how many panties have you ruined?"

"Too many. Yuki- _tan_ can't concentrate; Yuki- _tan_ 's goin' crazy, just thinking about Mistress Orchid."

"So, why did you call, bitch?"

"To plead, to _beseech_ Mistress Orchid to... To condescend to meet Yuki- _tan_."

"Oh? Is that so? Why the fuck should I _bother_? Your pussy is, oh, it _is_ sweet. It _is_ delectable. But there's a _perfectly_ fine pussy with me _now_. Why bother with the labor?"

Silence.

A wet sodden _spurt_ coils up up up through the line like sinuous incense smoke.

"Are you _touching_ yourself, you filthy fuck-hole-"

"Yees! Yuki- _tan_ is so sorry, Mistress Orchid. Yuki- _tan_ is- is filled with cum, an' it's not enough. It's not enough. Yuki- _tan_ 's lover pumped her full, again and again and again and again, but it isn't good enough!

"It's not good enough. Yuki- _tan_ needs Mistress Orchid. Yuki- _tan_ 's lover doesn't degrade her enough; Yuki- _tan_ feels like a princess. Not a slut. Not a slut. Yuki- _tan_ wants ta be a fucking _whore_ ; Yuki- _tan_ wants to be a piece of meat.

"To be less than meat. To be... To be _nothing_ at all."

"Really?" There is a slow syrupy deliberation in the words. "And how much will you be paying for the luxury? And stop fucking _pumping_ your nasty cunt. No. No." Inspiration; its sharp Archimedes shock. "No. No. If you can jam your _fist_ into that slutty hole, _then_ Mistress will permit it-"

"Yuki- _tan_ is! Mistress Orchid's hand is bigger than Yuki- _tan_ 's; f-fisting Yuki- _tan_ was too much. Mistress _broooke_ her." It's cooing and singsong and deranged.

"Well. Fine. Oh... Just _one_ moment."

"'kay." It's a piteous little mewl.

The line silenced.

"How much is your tuition?" The answer's silence; not incredulous but only befuddled, Noriko's eyes narrowed from slits to little more than fine dewy slashes curtained in the lashes' lush obsidian quills. Lips purse; her tongue gropes for purchase on anything like a thought.

"Um, about one-an'-a-half million yen? Why-"

"All right." There is silence again. "Yuki- _tan_? You're going to pay me six million yen for the privilege."

"S-six million yen?" Gawping. Aghast.

"Yes. That's right, Yuki- _tan_. Six million, or you can find someone else to take pity on you and treat you like the subhuman sex-hole you are-"

"Yuki- _tan_ 'll do it! S-she'll do it. She'll have six million yen for you. R-right away. An'... An' more. More. More. Yuki- _tan_ 'll pay you thirty million yen! J-just to show her favor."

Well.

"You filthy stupid _bitch_. There are starving wretched people in this country, and a spoiled little housewife _cunt_ like you can be so frivolous about that. But that's fine." Whatever the snarling, the snapping.

The _venom_.

"I'll be _sure_ you have a billion yen of abuse. I'll _gouge out_ your filthy fucking cunt 'til even your dull-eyed husband'll know someone's been banging you 'til your cervix screams. Where should I meet you?"

"A-at... At the Hyde Suites again. Do you mind doing that, Mistress Orchid?"

"What _temerity_ , having the fucking _audacity_ to suggest anything. But it was fine. It was charming. And if you upset Mistress _too_ much, there _is_ that convenient balcony. I'll see you there at, oh...

"When will you be _most_ pathetic?"

"N-now. Now. Yuki- _tan_ is going crazy-"

"I'll see you at three this afternoon, then, you filthy disgusting _whore_. The same suite." It must be.

"Yes! Yes, Mistress! Thank you, Mistress Orchid! W-what should Yuki- _tan_ wear?"

"Ngn... Let. Me. See. How about, oh... A charming little qipao. Cream. Slit to your slutty round hips; your stockings and heels and, well, _everything_. With your lover's jizz still _pouring_ from you. Is that understood?

"As many loads as their cock can _cram_ into you. With the plug again. Now, shut the fuck up and don't trouble me again today. You're pathetic." The cellular silent.

And she is there.

The eyes tremble, glassy and lacquered.

"A-ah... O-oh, oh, _wow_." Noriko shuddering with its simple immensity. "S-she... She's paying you to treat her like that?" Incredulity. "A-and so much?"

"Oh, that's a triviality next to the abuse she'll have this afternoon. Would you care to come with me?"

"W-wha?" The stare could probably swallow the universe and embrace itself in an endless wheeling twisting recursive madness.

Vaster.

Vaster.

"Yeah. It's for her degradation. Mmm... I'll buy you some _delicious_ lingerie, Noriko. I'll introduce you as, oh... My _Sub_."

"A-ah, uh, well, y'know, I- l-like, I dunno, 's... Kinda sudden-"

"Aren't you?" Knelt now. With fingers outstretched, _pricking_ into her chin. "Are you jealous?"

"Sorta-kinda? But... But I'm feelin' that... That good kinda _sick_ in my belly again-"

"Then you're _definitely_ coming." So to speak. "What a _luscious_ little cuckquean you are-"

"Wha? Y-y'know what? Never mind. I..."

"Call it, oh, _on-the-job training_." The smile is the San Andreas rupturing, splintering with brutal fanged shards.

Stone breaks.

Humanity _melts_ into its heaving convulsions.

"Ah, well, I mean-"

"You're so beautiful. And you'll understand that, I think. Watching me degrade and fuck and _terrorize_ her. She'll submit to you, also, if I order it, you know, Noriko. But you'll need a name; unless you _love_ Noriko."

"I- I always kinda wanted to be _Yuri_."

"How adorable." So she must be rewarded with the lips' slow languorous brush. A kiss. Once.

And again.

"I'm not jealous, _Yuri_. Not unless you betray my trust."

"I- w-who'd be fuckin' dumb enough to do that? Wouldn't you just kill 'em?"

"You'd imagine so, wouldn't you?"

But the blue-eyed liar is...

It is a wound that no violence can efface.

The surgeon's scalpel cannot excise the soul's scars.

Fuck it.

The dance wheels.

Twists.

Heaves.

Let it continue.

All must persevere. All must continue, again, again, again. It is not even to know continuity's whimsical figments so much as merely the awareness that all _is_. It is an unbroken and uninterruptible seam stitched through reality's every instant, its every quirk and convolution and vicissitude. It is an Oktoberfest waltz wrought in _The House of The Rising Sun_ 's demented strains throbbing and bleating and pummeling the ears in sharp shrill brass, and it is not brass now, no, no, but bronze, and this bronze is stained in verdigris and thickens and darkens and deepens into black silver, and this silver, well, why should it not be lead, but the lead, ah, you see, the _lead_ is gold. All is alchemy. Brass becomes gold becomes platinum warps itself in inscrutable rites again into brass. It is to know the Wuxing through Hamburg and The Animals are Die Tiere and it is not even _this_. All is apart from it.

Ah! And here we are again. Because nothing is apart; because nothing can be apart. Wheeling, and whorling, and twisting, and a three-dimensional universe in its fallible dimensions is still fundamentally two-dimensional. What beast dares ever to peer beyond its immediate horizons? Our lives are wrought not in possibilities, but only in _im_ possibilities. In the wisdoms of what eludes us; in a simple understanding of what there _cannot_ be.

They are called boundaries. They are still failures, elementally and insolubly. They can only be. Tumble and rise and fall again and you will never _soar_. Our technology is less a crutch and less transcendence and more merely its affirmation. It is our admission that these things will and _cannot_ be. They must not be.

To rupture these ideals would be to invite the system's disintegration. All is order's delusion. It is nothing even so ambiguous as a mere truism to accentuate that a narrow order is to invite a greater entropy; and our ambition to a greater order is a vaster and more harrowing entropy still. It is to struggle with a great slopping squelching misshapen beast whose very _form_ is formlessness. And this formlessness is fundamental to its being.

To strain the gelatin is to distend it elsewhere; to push and press and clamp and clasp and condense and to gather its quavering threads and quirks and geometries and inscrutable geographies and to sculpt them with Michelangelo's fervor for the mannerist absolute is to defy its essence. To capture this is only to countenance a lesser order still.

It will fail.

Because it must fail.

All ineluctably and irresistibly plunges into _nothing_.

It is not a binary; it is a continuum. And the continuum plunges with the inevitable's cruel and insurmountable gravity into _nothing_. This is your destination. It is life's passage. It is youth's figments wrought in another's delusional zeal for a vicarious comfort; it is to age, to slip into those ruts that endless clomping feet have gouged with a combat-boot hammering into chasms, into great caverns pitching and imploding deeper and deeper and deeper into the earth.

Because we are afraid. Because order is ultimately an admission of this; because the most exalted creativity, the sublimest enterprise, in its service is only a lesser act of imagination. It is still bound to a broader system.

And this is a blood-poison, a metabolic disease, an intellectual defilement whose genesis lies beyond our agency, that steeps into the cells, that sloshes and churns and heaves and ultimately inflicts itself not as a parallel and not as a companion but _displaces_ them. As junk's fanaticisms, junk-sickness' woeful and febrile phantasms, sculpt this, so too are we sculpted by language.

Addiction is to reject this.

Is to resist this.

It is to plant our genuflection, our enslavement, into another mistress altogether. It is not liberation but only _alternative_. What is more precious? One or one? Their destinations are not merely alike, but only _one_. They are, because they must be.

Because we have permitted our _infinite_ potential to be constrained in form. In flesh. In meat. In bone. In blood. In our very _genes_ ; in the grandiose chemistries whose commands are more irresistible than divine writ scrawled with lightning's coruscating blaze into sacral tablets. Because it is our _essence_ ; because you ultimately cannot shrug away nature with the languor that you do a mother's or a father's wishes.

Because your nature eclipses all. It is merely to taste another servitude to deny this. So what does it matter? Plead with the Fates, with those diabolic sisters whose cold eyes survey reality in its endless scope, whose swift fingers stitch together its very fabric, and whose blades limn its dimensions. Plead with them, implore them, and you will taste only the simple numb absolutism in deafness, in blindness.

Theirs is not a wisdom of _Us_. It is only thread; only fabric; only the meat and the soul. Commingled or carved apart, it is of little relevance. The _after_? So before. As above? So below. So all must be in a symmetry defined in _nothingnesses_. Ah. Ah. You will gorge yourself on the denialism. You will wish yourself into an ignorance called reason.

Great and ennobling folktales will be displaced with other great and ennobling folktales. The Sun's cult shall become the Gods and the Gods shall become the gods in their fickle vindictive multiplicity and the gods shall become the Pantheon and this Pantheon shall be carved away again or embellished further and you will dim these horizons in their sunset again to an indivisible and absolutist thing called God or god or Yahweh or Allah or or or or and then, then, there shall be a renunciation of _this_ and it will be called Science and it will be called Reason and it will be called Theology and It Was Good, also, but there must be progress from this. There will be men venerated with the uncritical adoration that must be reserved for the gods or Gods or god or God and their self-anointed intermediaries with the Fleshly.

They are named scientists. Their works are more tangible; they are no more _meaningful_. Darwin and Lamarck and Feynmann and Einstein and I will ask you this. Do you read Planck any more than the 'thumpers gorge themselves upon their sainted wisdom? Perhaps less? What is _your_ knowledge of the rite and formulae in their alchemy that shackles electrons in their wheeling ballet to exacting binary ones and zeros? What of the forces that bear aloft an aircraft?

A bumblebee's wings in their quick throbbing flit and flicker?

It is God's grace, or Bernoulli's Principle, or does it mean absolutely _nothing_? Could it ever aspire to that ideal named _meaning_? What is the profundity that fuels this? Or is there a simple contentment to _be_? This sainted ideal named Materialism.

Thoughtless.

Selfish.

Senseless. There is little to be tasted in this world but the flesh; the fleshly is rejected in this, for the machine is a purified perfection. It is to gravitate away from the carnal, from the sensual. It is Saint Order's _potential_ in this; it is for that very potential to be diminished, a morsel carved from you in even being granted guise, but potential is an indivisible ideal. How can you carve away a bit from an infinite god?

Dare you be this god?

Dare you be as gods?

What is to be done, to be said, if the answer is _no_?

If the answer to this question is _yes_? Are you to be cast from Paradise, then?

Ye Shall Be As Gods.

Ye Shall Be As Gods.

Ye Shall Be.

To Be.

Not to Be.

Not questions at all. It is nihilism's most fundamental quandary. And existentialism, also? Is it a rationale for selfishness, to gorge yourself on this elemental meaninglessness, or is life in its unknowable undestined vagaries preciouser still?

Drink. And drink. And drink. Because she is beautiful; because she who was once Noriko is now Yuri; Seaweed has blossomed into the lily's velvet petals. The legs are long and sinuous and shapely; the waist is trim and still kissed with a feminine softness that is not manufactured, not a manga ideal carved of reality's elemental guise.

Because it _is_ ; because _she_ is. Because it is to know the elegant wheeling mince and sway and the unselfconscious dancer's grace in her voluptuous hips' quirk; it is to _devour_ this spectacle with a fervor that cannot quite be captured in language. It is not love, because this thing cannot find purchase with such ease in the breast.

It would be so simple to grope at the obliging scapegoats, and carve them into meat; to offer these ritual sacrifices sainted with our collective guilt. But it is a lie. _All_ is ultimately a lie; this is also impossible, because nothing is a lie.

Objective reality is a figment. It is still a second-order simulacrum; it is an object of communal accord. We will believe it, and so shall it be. In our great sensual multitudes, our compromise will be the truth, and the outliers from this madness. There is forever the reaching clutching plea amongst those that delude themselves they are sane.

They will wail and howl, _Ah, ah, but what_ _ **are**_ _these madmen? What are these madwomen? What is_ _ **their**_ _delusion?_

But it is not a delusion at all.

It is not to say, _This is what is_.

It is to say, _This is what is_. But from their vantage. This is their reality; their reality alone. It isn't a conscious awareness of your madness, because this madness is _not_. It is an imprecation inflicted from without, and not within. Insanity's knowledge is only known in juxtaposition.

To be alone is to be without sanities in their gradations and their subjectivities. To believe man can take flight is sanity's lapse; or perhaps this is witchery; or perhaps this is merely your Saturday flight to Cape Verde.

Ah.

But to bellow that man will rear up upon great columns of golden fire to the stars, _this_ is insanity, isn't it?

Or is it your five o'clock to Mars, or to Alpha Centauri?

It is only gradations in possibility, in the imagination's twist and quirk and vicissitude.

She has slipped from potential into form.

It is to known the essential _reality_ in this. She is beautiful simply because she is beautiful; she is sublime simply because she is sublime. There is a spiritual allure in this. In admiring the body's quirk and convolution; in permitting your eyes to capture and cradle the long lean legs, to adore the voluptuous thighs and sleek lissome calves and the ankles' sumptuous arch.

The _everything_ in this.

Her ass' pert lush overripe peach grace.

There is a clamoring to touch; to touch and touch and touch and this can be, or it cannot be, but there is not a _must_ in this. The universe and fate do not importune you to this. It is simply to sit. There is paralysis. Not even in the junk, but only in your _being_.

To be still; absolutely still.

"You're beautiful, you know, Yuri- _tan_." And there is the voice's soft trilling coo flaring up from your lips.

A sudden sharp _shock_ in the body; half-twisted, bowing down, her tits' luscious generous fall in its fullest quiescence to gravity.

Shame. That's what animates the flesh, isn't it?

Belly violently _strained_.

"Don't suck it in-"

"I- I can't _help_ it, y'know, Orchid?" With eyes flitting with an anxious flourish through the hair that whispers over satiny cheeks scalding with prickling carmine.

"You can-"

"I- I really can't. 's just... I _knew_ you were looking at me; you were so still that I could forget it. But, like, when you _talked_ to me, I just, y'know, felt your eyes on me. An' that was it. Couldn't take it anymore. It was, like, so _crazy_.

"I'm so insecure about it-"

"Don't be." Perhaps this is to command the seagull to dance de Jim Crow.

"I _am_. Mom always called me _fat_. Yeah, right, mom. I wanna, like, be a rail-thin washed-up model like you who _hates_ dad for wrecking her body or whatever an' hates her baby even more. She's such- such a _bitch_." There is pain.

Sharp; spearing; it is a razored chromium-enameled sea urchin huddled in your gut, straining and flaring and bloating and receding again while its brutal barbed spines rip and tug and tear and inflating itself again.

Again.

Again.

"I'd say she is, Yuri- _tan_. But she ain't _Yuri_ 's mother, is she?"

"It'd be so easy. I- I wish you could just be _her_ , like, um, whatever. Mistress?"

"That was so articulate-"

"S-stop it. Don't tease me. I'm better with a pen than I am with words." But, well, there is still realism in this _admission_.

"I'm much abler with words than a pen. But I love your pen technique, Yuri- _tan_. And you're beautiful. I'd fuck your mother if she's some likeness of you."

"She's pretty." There's a grudging quality in it. A taut strain that twists teeth into fangs and grinds the fangs into powder. "She- she's really pretty. I'd love to say, She's all washed up, but she's seriously sexy.

"Even if she should probably eat more rice or somethin'. 'cause, I mean, she used to be a gravure model."

"That was predictable." The smile's taut, tormented. "And your dad, _clearly_ , is wealthy-"

"W-well, yeah. I mean... Maybe not a big celebrity like, uh..." And there is epiphany; there is a sharp taut _tremor_ in the lips. "T-that is-"

"He's my dad. I know that. At least, he's my _father_ ; the word _dad_ ain't really merited. But _mom_ probably ain't for her, either. The- the _shame_ , the _humiliation_ , they both inflicted on me, it's..." There is a will to convulse with a heaving _madness_ ; an elemental and implacable psychosis in breath and word and deed.

But the breath is hyperventilation's gasping madness.

Word is howling yowling shrieking inarticulate lingual _insanity_.

Deed is anything that could yield a gratifying tinkle and shiver and _crack_ in glass or stone or _anything_ a giant's fist could grind into paste like Versailles' galleries introduced to Krupp artillery. But there is quietude; there is stillness.

There is a serene languorous darkness, cradled in domesticity's charming affectations. In a room whose name announces only its most elemental fixture. It is circumlocution, this architectural ideal called a _bedroom_. It is only wrought around this; it is euphemism. It is in language to plant the home's core away from lust, from desire.

It is a _slumbering_ place; it is a soporific place; it is a tranquil river and not a sun-battered beach whose platinum effulgences do not merely invite but _entice_ in their sodden sweat-steeping carnalities. It is to clamor for her. And she is here.

It is to be seated; a half-reclining odalisque.

"I hate him, of course." While the furnishings do not wheel and do not throb with light and shadow; it is something flat, drab, a bronzed nothing staining the walls. The mattress is western; there is only our culture's denial here. It is a denialist society.

"I- I guess I get it, y'know, Orchid? Um... Are you _Mistress Orchid_ when we're together? Y'know, like, _Mistress Orchid an' her Sub, Yuri-_ _ **chi**_."

"Oh, oh, _oh_." There is exuberance. Garrulous, chiming. "I _love_ that. What an enchanting aesthetic. _Yuri-_ _ **chi**_." It is bliss; it is sublimity. It is to know her body; to rear up with fingers outstretched, settling on her hips' lavish roundness. "You're prettier than I am, you know, Noriko-"

"N-no fuckin' way. Y'look like you came outta a porno manga, y'know, Orchid-"

"That's _why_. Because I'm not human. Because... Because I'm something _wrought_ in an unreal genetic roulette, like my parents, conjuring fantasy into being. It's all senseless; it's all _meaningless_. It's an insanity, I think." Palms cradle the softness, the lusciousness. "That's it, I think.

"I'm society's insanity made manifest. I've been _generated_ ; that's what it is. The... Ah, _fuck_ , 's goddamn pretentious, but _is_ that. A _gestalt_." The word poisonous on the tongue. "Yeah. I'm only a _gestalt_ 's collective hallucination.

"A bit of thorazine or lithium, and I'd vanish. I'd melt away like mountain mist with the morning sun's dawn."

"I- I'd hate that." Her eyes huge, guileless. "I, ah... You've had me changin' into an' outta lingerie and- and this _amazing_ stuff y'bought for me all _day_. Going shopping with you is going _shopping_ at a lingerie shop."

"I love lingerie. It's preciouser than even bare skin to me, Yuri- _chi_." Kiss her.

Yes.

With imploring lips.

Cradle her mouth's sweet soft allure.

Tongues swept together, sticky and enchanting. An elegance that defies language. Fingers grope and clutch and _plead_.

There is hunger. Ravening, esurient. Yes.

This sainted word named _hunger_.

Touch her; touch her. The clothing is something precious; the clothing is also meaningless. The long long long legs, ah, ah, it is to be _polluted_ with the perfection named fetishery. Ideal consummated in her skin cradled in taut gauzy fabric.

Indigo.

She is an indigo beauty.

The heavy _luscious_ plump tits like creamy marshmallow borne aloft in a grandiose shelf, drawn taut under the falling thick droop.

Delicious.

Yes.

Delectable.

Hunger is humanity's most fundamental animating instinct. Transcending wisdom, eclipsing faith, it is _this_ that shudders through us, _churns_ us. Or _it_. There is forever a superstitious twinge; imperishably an unbroken tendril in doubt, in reflection, in _meditation_. Ah, ah, ah, _what_ the hell is humanity?

Am I?

When humanity has obligingly somnolently slumped into vacuous ravening consumerism, renouncing its own native hungers and embracing as thickly-tattooed surrogate the onus that the _isms_ have inflicted? Theologies and economies and all ultimately become tautology, senseless and without reflection. There is no _thought_ in any of this.

It is. Because it is. It is because it is. It is because. It is. There we are. It is to deny grammar; it is for thought's very _order_ to be cast away in this fervor for an unassailable orderly absolute. It is to fling apart your arms, to beckon closer, closer, closer the entropy in its implacable and irremediable madnesses in service to this ideal named order, named structure.

It is a figment. We will be urged to renounce, to reject, our very natural _essence_. The flesh must no longer be the flesh; order and _tyranny_ 's simple convenience will command that it be marble, that it be purified, denuded of the stains and the vagaries and vicissitudes and vulgarities that we are. That we must not be. We are become the banality in Calvinism-by-Ikea modern consumerism; we must cast away our crudeness, our ugliness, because all must be equally hideous in its unbroken unleavened absolute. There is only a beauty wrought not in a subjective dreamy fervor for the fine fingers and long long shapely legs and heavy lavish breasts and lips dewy and effulgent with desire, with the eyes immense and trembling or even slitted and narrow with hunger's clutching carnalities, but to be _purified_.

A neutrality arid of that wet equivocal thing called _humanity_. Humanity is cast away. All is smoothed; all is reduced to a sleek concrete sublimity. Yes. It is no longer even marble in its artisanal subjectivities but something cruder still. It is not even to be molded or to be carved but merely _cast_. Breeding is an act of nationalist mass-production; all merely is as it is, and forever to be. It is our collective ideal, this imperishable stagnation called _stability_.

But Progress is also craved, you know. The women must be more beautiful tomorrow; the men must be sterner; the weapons must be _more_ devastating; we must be _securer_ for all of this. Today can be forgotten. Ah, ah, it's almost forgotten, isn't it?

And yesterday was a meaningless phantasmal thing, a triviality undeserving of the eyes' meagrest glint, of even _one_ cell rattling through the wheeling reeling darkness tucked between the ears and behind the eyes. It is as it is; as it _must_ have been. This perversion named normative, it is our faith.

Cognitive dissonance is our doctrine. We must entertain these oxymorons, these juxtapositions, these cognitive ruptures, because they are the universe's very _flesh_. We must admit that _should_ have no meaning to us, because we are obedient.

Because our eyes are not open, but closed, and collective, ah, ah, at once, we will sway to the Lotus Eaters' rhythm, to their great murmuring strains that rear up in a grandiose babble throbbing and pounding with a timpani frenzy at every sense. The fundamental wisdom that we are not entitled to this ideal. To this simple _autonomy_. The system would break, you understand.

All is in accordance not with its own merits, but the _system_. The cohesion and coordination and collectivity in this. We do not exist as ourselves. We are our neighbors' convolutions, and we theirs. Our lives must be tethered to them; we must be enameled to them. We are a conjoined and communal madness named a culture.

 _We_.

There is no longer an _I_.

In everything, there is a plea to revolt against this. A rebellion in the structure figments called individualism, consumerism, _individuality_. We will stain them with such grandiose dances in letters and figures and characters, democracy, democracy, ah, this is a democratic holiday, you know. Christmas. There is no obligation. Your simple will animates it.

But it is your deeper responsibility to _buy_.

Something.

You will be alone without this.

And to be alone is to fail.

To be stained with this cruelty named _failure_.

Another's judgment, whatever your own. It is forever to know this; it is eternally to _taste_ this lash imperishably raking at the shoulders, the yoke upon the neck. The soul scarred in the keloids' ugly gnarled constellations littering its every reach. We will know eternally the _anguish_ in this perversion named shame.

It is not only the Asians steeped in our Oriental _face_ ; face is quintessential, omnicultural. The stain desecrating humanity in its fervor for another's validation. It is to know that most essential philosophical perfection in self-love finally _externalized_. The fundamental existential horror in knowing only oneself. This is the truth, isn't it?

Because we are not _I_ unless there is another to be _you_ , and perhaps another still to be _they_.

I am nothing without you.

It is not romantic. It is simply mathematic. It is to know judgment reflected; in the mother's flesh, in that strange amniotic place where the _individuation_ is first tasted in its inklings of differentiation. Where it is not merely cellular, not lurking alone in the biologic, but the psychology that is our affliction, our woe. Where language percolates, slithers with its ineluctable self-enclosed knowledges into the spirit.

Where and when we know, even with the convergence of heartbeats, of your mother's and your own, the elemental suffering in _apartness_. It is here that it is intuited. If it were to begin and end with this, we would still perhaps aspire to an imperfection that lurks nearer to that sainted ideal in the undifferentiated.

Our wish is to know not the warmth in another's embrace; this warmth is still to admit the cold. It is for unbroken _absoluteness_ ; it is for sin and virtue and for good and evil and wickedness and kindness to be as alien and _impossible_ as apartness. Our Original Sin is this.

Lo, did Hawa and 'Adam admit their simple _being_. The Fruit of Knowledge is the divine's awareness of the flesh in its abstractions, in the void between bodies, between souls. It is to know intimately and profoundly the inexpressible cruelty in this.

It is perhaps only a Cruel God's will that we should suffer this at all. It is Ayumi's fetishism, her psychosis, but this is something to which any mind must ultimately gravitate. We are of the Ten Million Kami; we are their offspring, and their officiators, also. All dwells in the mind, in the body. All rite, and all ceremony.

All _being_.

Close your mind, and it will vanish. Will it out of being, and the world will no longer be animate with the rich lathering exoticism in the kami in their uncountable multitudes; all will merely be as it is. No longer will ghosts and spirits lurk in every deed, and every quirk, and every convolution in the unknowable. No longer will machinery riot with their will; no longer will the sacral wood and the purifying wind and water shiver with their caress.

There will only be an ineluctable and irresistible mechanistic certitude in this design; it will be humanity deified and upheld in a mirrored fundamentalism. We will believe in our own fictions, as we always have, but there will only be the existential selfishness in this.

It does not matter.

I will cradle her in my arms, and there is an awareness of strength's faintest fugitive _tremor_ layered beneath the sleek taut skin, the fat's faintest kiss. She is here.

I am here.

It is existential anguish, perhaps, but this is only an endless sullen thrum like the summer cicadas' distant shrill screech. It is there; it is always there. Her heat _swallows_ , inhales. It is to be dragged deeper, deeper, deeper.

"I _love_ lingerie, Yuri- _chi_. Can't even _hope_ to articulate to you how much. It's just... It's the perfection in a shadow play, in a fan-dance. It's not even the tease; it's the duality." And it is to know our bodies in their collision, their confluence.

Yuri.

Or perhaps her name is Noriko.

Or she is Hawa, whom they call Eve.

It doesn't matter. I am she; she is me, also. Pull her closer, closer, closer. Know the lips' softness; fingers wend and meander. Vagabond, without destination; there is no sense of the _ultimate_. There is no perfection in this.

In fingers biting into thighs cradled in taut gauzy fabrics.

In the fingertip's brush.

Wandering.

Endless, endless, there is only the will to know with a fervor they elide with the word _biblical_. There is nothing biblical in this. In the eyes' darkness, curtained in heavily-lobed lids; in the lashes whose thick inky spray is a great effulgent constellation of quills that entice the lips; in the tremor palpitating through her throat's creamy elegances that announces a hummingbird's wings.

She is beautiful.

Sumptuous.

"I love _this_ one, I think, Noriko. Or are you Yuri- _chi_?"

"I- I love, uh, bein' _Yuri-_ _ **chi**_. I- I always kinda wanted mom an' dad to name me that. I even asked 'em about changing my name."

"And they complained?" How can you not be awed with this? How can the eyes not entrance, the lips in their artful quiver not enchant?

"Yeah. 'cause 's too expensive or somethin' to get the family register changed. An' mom was just _so_ proud about having the name _she_ chose. It's her grandma's or something. Noriko. What total bullshit, right? Do I _look_ like a Noriko?"

"Mmm... There is _this_ seaweed, y'know?" A palm _clamped_ on the delta that announces itself in the curls' thick taut tapestry; it is not the lurid excess that announces its own fetishistic decadence, not a vast crop that could camouflage a charging rhinoceros, conceived alone for AV's vapid pageantry writhing with the censor's mosaic that will shelter us from the horror in a glimpse of our own flesh.

No, no, no.

Fine.

Well-trimmed.

A satin whisper along a palm.

"A-ah, ah, Orchid-"

"You really _are_ delicious, aren't'cha, Yuri- _chi_? Delectable." And it is to kiss, to kiss, to kiss. To know the elemental bliss in the flesh. Scalding. Soft. _Wet_. "This sloppy fucking pussy; you're already drenched. 's incredible, ain't it?

"How _cooperative_ the body is?"

"It- it, l-like, it's only my _body_." Quivering.

Imploring.

"A-ah... Ahn... Ahn!" A coo; a convulsion.

The voice rears up, a pocket thunderclap liberated to crash with wet-velvet sublimity at the ears.

"F-fuck, fuck, fuck, Orchid, 's..." Another stroke; and another. It is fingers, long, sleek, a sensual ease in the pads, one, and a second, and a third, brushed along those soft sumptuous geometries.

There is a geography that cannot be tasted in the cartographer's abstruse languages. There is a topography that can only be savored in its fundamental immediacies.

To capture it in language, in the voice's fickle vicissitudes, would be to peer at a relief map of the Congo and declaim to yourself, _Ah, I understand the River. I understand the cataracts. I understand the jungle in its simmering wet swelter; I understand Kinshasa in its filth and fetor and the great River's trembling scaled sprawl, tawny and effulgent with the afternoon sun. I understand the refuse heaped in mounds so vertiginous that your eyes will fall into communion from a hotel balcony with the stick-figure birds whose beaks snap down and jerk up again brandishing morsels of its filth._

It is something sainted in its novelty; it is an exoticism.

It is Yuri- _chi_.

It is any woman. There is no woman that is simply _everywoman_. Every man is little more than meat; boy-meat, man-meat, perhaps, gnarled and thick with the Y chromosome's novel asset. But it is still ultimately only _meat_.

A woman is not. A woman is not sugar and spice, no, no. A woman is _ineffable_ ; a woman is the divine's quintessence. There is not language; there is only deed. Her appreciation, her adoration, is to be tasted in this. In the palms clamped on Yuri- _chi_ 's plump ass whose boundaries are defined in a perfunctory thong's steeply swept fabrics. It is without any meaning but merely an encomium to national borders.

There is not a crotch; there is only the most trivial seam cleaving apart her ass' sumptuous overripe peach grace.

Fingers tear now.

Peel.

Splay.

A _jab_. It is a delirium, a soaring surging symmetry in the lips' rubbery contortion and that taut pucker's surrender. It is to know its quiescence like a French army with commands issued in German lead and Portuguese wolfram. It is a shiver; it is a _quaver_.

A gasp.

"W-what'cha doin', Orchid-"

"What do you think I am? Would it be fair to deny your _Mistress_ anything?" And there is only awe.

The height disparity now a cruel juxtaposition.

It is to _loom_.

"W-whaddaya mean-"

"Won't you call me _Mistress_ Orchid, Yuri- _chi_?" Is it... Is it to brush her through a sieve's convolutions? To know _her_ sensibilities, her sentiments?

The groveling slavish plea for genuflection?

"I- I dunno 'bout that. I mean, y'know, m-maybe when we're playin' a game or somethaaaaaah!" A squeal; a squall. A _shriek_. "G-goddammit, Orchid, 's- 's fuckin' _painful_! J- just stickin' your finger in there!" Announced in the eyes' immensity, flaring open, carnal somnolence not displaced but merely _pummeled_ like stained glass under Soviet armor. "F-fuck, fuck, it hurts-"

"Isn't it delectable?" And there is a second finger; not to _tear_ into her; not beheading a mountain to carve into its innards. It is only a twist and a jerk and a tug.

"Ngn... 's... 's so fuckin' weird. An'- an' I've played with it a few times, b-but I always use lo-lotion-"

"Are you disobeying me?" A kiss, a kiss, a kiss.

"I- I don't wanna act like some slave." Ah.

And there we are.

It is incredulity's hot breath on the nape.

"No?"

"N-n-no. No. I, ah, y-y'know, y'said y'wanted to be my girlfriend, right? F-for me to be your cute, um... What was it?" Dreamy; drowsy.

Again, again, with another hand's contrition in its slow sinuous maunder between her thighs.

To tease and adore the lips' smile in its dewy hungers.

"A-ah, ah, ahn... Oh, _fuck_ , you're good with your hands, Orchid."

"That's right. I do want you to be my girlfriend. My, ah," and there can only be the lips' sharp quirk, a fanged wicked smile coalescing with a quick darting grace, "Fluffy girlfriend."

"I kinda like it now, y'know? Now that I know you're not just calling me _fat_."

"No. No. Would I offer you so much delectable lingerie if I weren't craving this soft skin?" Closer, closer.

A warmth in her flesh folded against my breast.

An awareness of its simple _presence_ ; it is not the vaporous narcissism in this perverse confluence in the carnal and the fiduciary.

It is not a _client_.

"I- I, ah, y'know, why'd'ja ask me about being my _Mistress_?"

Is there an answer that cradles this bladed bejeweled ideal named _tact_?

The politic?

"Because I wondered if you were a pathetic craven sow, only begging to be abused for your own gratification." So it is tossed away, ground under an iron boot.

Japanese are more German than Germans.

We will not renounce the ideal named _Iron_.

Ours is a conviction to anoint ourselves in tamahagane. Politesse is something that should happen to other people. The Japaneseperfection is not to be found in compromise, in the delicate Taisho dilettante's whimsies. It is the samurai's cold steel brushed upon an adversary's throat.

It is to be found in death poetry.

We are hypocrites. We will gorge ourselves upon figments that we call _democracy_ ; it is a democracy wrought in selfish oligarchy's excess, in a culture of pseudo-egalitarian consumerism. Democracy is a foreignness; there is nothing like _democracy_ in this place, in this garden of great glass-and-steel lotuses that flare ineluctably skyward with hubristic ambitions of conquest.

It is a perversion, a wickedness, that archetypal ideals in left and right are inflicted upon us. The fundamentalists groveling in genuflection before the Christ martyr stain themselves scarlet; the scowling reactionary yakuza are homos, faggots with a fervor for male flesh, for shudō's carnal delectations. We are not white.

It is our ideal to be.

We would much rather not be, also.

We will aspire to the fantastical ideal in being _known_ as European; we will adorn our homes in their sainted imagery. We will curtain ourselves in Westernism; there will be bejeweled fervor for mattresses in their ostentation; there will be a lust for architectural nostrums. And we will flee into the mountains, into our sainted ancestral sentimentalism, our nostalgic figments.

There must forever be a tatami-draped Japanese Room.

We are afraid.

Fear fuels our ideals.

Our ideals fuel fear. Implacable, circuitous, self-reinforcing, they will become their own tautologies. We are afraid because we must fear; we must fear because we are afraid. Grope and clutch at her.

I am not afraid.

I am afraid. I am not a Yamato Nadeshiko; I am not an American. The flesh is a porno manga refugee; the soul and spirit and heart are assembled from patchwork whimsy, wrought with febrile figments of your own agency and still ultimately pummeled and battered and twisted and broken on convention's cruel variegated axes.

None can quite aspire to absolute autonomy.

All will surrender. In measures, yes, but it is all surrender.

All being is surrender.

Resistance is impossible. How melodramatic. All is melodrama; the world is our theater. Isn't it? No. No. No. It is to be rejected, to be renounced, to be cast away with eyes averted from the enchantment that is only disappointment's invitation. It is fear; it is anguish; it is _unease_. It is forever with the clutching prepossessing terror that lurks in another's eyes.

We dare not be our own drama's lead; we dare not even offer ourselves a walk-on role. Society's contentment is with merely being _glimpsed_. To know that you have been seen is enough. It is a dreadful and harrowing thing; it is an ugly thing. And we are still here, wheeling, cavorting, and there is the conviction to transfix yourselves with another's performance, and to plead that perhaps you will be seen, also.

To consummate the ideal named _celebrity_. It is all senseless; it is all meaningless. And still, still, here we are. We will dance. The gallop and canter and waltz and it is now balletic, great and lunging and almost convulsive in its violence. Her fingers grope.

I will surrender.

She will quiesce.

I cannot be alone. Whatever the wish, the childish and groping and self-indulgent conceit, there is perhaps no ambition to this. Hope is a senseless thing; it is to aspire to deny reality, even while it's admitted in its crushing immensity and its conquering absolutism. Victorious armies harbor no hope; there are no prayers huddled upon their lips in great insurmountable conquest.

It is the vanquished for whom hope flowers.

It is the vanquished for whom these great and febrile legends are wrought.

There is always only hope.

Day.

And day.

And day.

After day after day after day after day and it is all alike and there is a moment's strange crushing epiphany. I am here; you are here; we are all here. At once, at once, our lives and our flesh and our souls and our simple _beings_ are conjoined. And we are not here, also. We cannot be. We have been drawn, scrawled with celestial pen and ink and perhaps something more grandiose still into the aesthetic creole's wretched imprecision while The Eagles throb through the stereo whispering strange and unknowable legends of the great sorceress, the Witchy Woman, oh, yes, yes.

And our lives have become another's cipher to this universe. We are not, because our delirious convictions of agency dwell alone not even between our ears and behind our eyes but in _their_ judgment, their will, and we can simply be set aside or even reduced to nothing but memory that is not even graced with permanence's certitudes.

Ah!

We will be canceled.

After five or six or twenty years.

Or perhaps he or she will die. Havin' the big one, 'lizabeth, clutching their chest, Karōshi's sainted tribute to our conviction. We must be. We dwell there. We _are_ there. We are the Muse's soft perfumed breath wafting upon the nape of the neck.

The long slender fingers outstretched to lace through the hair.

A _kiss_ , fleeting, entrancing, a tantalizing promise brushed on a cheek.

 _Soon. Soon. Soon._

 _Soon. Just another page. Just another word. Just another..._

And there shall be a reward.

An eternal one, you understand. To aspire to this sublimity, to be nestled amongst the exalted, cradled in the pantheon, no longer for your failure to capture the geometries in celebrity to be bemoaned. You are immortal. You are marble, graven with such exacting perfection you are now an inexpressible grotesque. You are no longer human.

We are there, also, rattling through the stone and regret.

 _Why the hell didn't I just become a pastry chef?_

 _Maybe it would've been simpler to be a pharmacist._

 _You know what? Construction would've really given me a fuckin' incredible tan. Chicks love tanned built dudes._

 _Or chicks. Whatever._

But we are here. I will kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her, because all life is ultimately another's surrogate. We do not dwell in the presence; the present is merely the past's and future's borderlands, never truly quite to be tasted in its fullest depth.

All coruscates through the neurology with a vanishingly tiny lapse. But it is still a lapse. We will not speak the catechisms in light and electricity. There are vacuums and there are atmospheres and they are meaningful to their celerities.

Kiss the beautiful girls.

Ah.

But we cannot. We cannot, because we are afraid.

We cannot, because they are afraid. We cannot be trusted; trustworthiness happens to other people, and trust, also. They are called _victims_ ; they are the pathetic rubes who do not quite taste our elemental truths. That we are wicked, wicked, wicked. It is in our Original Sin; not Hawa, whom they call Eve, who eats corn that is called maize, but in our awareness of our differentiation.

The fingers are gelatin.

They yield and wilt and their definition is poor; the girls smile but it is a fugitive and fitful thing while they huddle in their pairs, and never alone, pleading for the great rattling wheeled centipede whose breath plumes with acrid black violences through the textureless muddled lead-white sky. Ah.

How beautiful they are. I would adore touching them. Wouldn't you? For there to be the simple _trust_ in this world to know the untroubled naïve ease in this binary. Yes, no? No, yes? May I kiss you?

Ah. Ah. But they are afraid, because they _should_ be afraid. Because we should be afraid. Because I am afraid; because you are afraid; because _all_ are afraid. And fear merely breeds a clamoring to inflict this upon another, for there to be an appropriate symmetry. The terrified pathetic manchild in its clutching Faulknerian _plea_ to validate itself.

The idiot staggering with flags in the dust, bellowing and bleating with great sound and fury, signifying ultimately everything. We are this collective madness, this perversion with eyes glazed and perspective deforming itself in merciless wheeling twisting convolutions.

They are afraid, because hands can be outstretched, and they will rip and gouge and tug and tear and while blood still seeps from the ravaged meat, there will already be the words coalescing in our ambition to seek swaddling shelter in ignorance, in denial, _Well, what did_ _ **they**_ _do to deserve it?_

Forever this corruption.

She is beautiful. Tug her closer, and closer, and even when their eyes converge with yours, there is a fundamental and insoluble fear. I cannot.

They cannot.

Who are you, and who am I?

"A-ah, ah, O-Orchid, Orchid, _Orchid_!" A quiver and quaver and her toes will curl with a straining hungry fervor while her flesh in its oh so fluffy delectation is draped now with the hips' quick quirk and the arms' graceful twist across the mattress. "W-whoa, you're...

"You're so _strong_."

"Are you craving it, though? To be my pathetic groveling slug of a servant?"

"Like, um, d-do I getta choice if I wanna be your girlfriend?" While a knee slips closer, closer, closer to that sainted artful delta.

It is beautiful in its geometries, in the warmth that whispers rumors of clear water. The delirium and the steeping malarial _madness_ that it vows, also, hunger's fragrant locus.

"Yes. Of course." Dip down, down, down. A kiss brushed on her jaw's fine geometries.

A tongue _swept_ through the sweat springing up with a clarified feminine elegance over her brow.

"Yes. Yes. Yes, Yuri- _chi_. Or Noriko- _chi_. Or whichever you'd care to be. You're so beautiful, you know. You don't need to be my _slave_. I... I haven't really had an affair or anything like that _without_ it. I just wondered."

Or is it perhaps the elemental jaded expectation that it _must_ be.

Ultimately, ultimately, _all_ will be this.

They will all clamor for this.

They will abdicate their own deeds' responsibility and inflict it upon their Mistress in narcissistic enslavement. There are needs; needs must be fulfilled, must be indulged. They can be ignored; oh, oh, but the ignorance is as surely impotent as global warming's rejection while the storm-surge slops over your fine scarlet heels.

It is a relentless prickling invasion; an intrusion like grease smeared on a lens. It is here. It is here; it will _forever_ be here.

"I just wondered. I just wondered."

"N-never, O-aaaarchid?!" A quail; a squeal; fingers _daggering_ now into that heavy soft darkness.

"Never. Never. Never." And there it is.

It is...

It isn't.

There's a tremor in the eyes; the breathlessness simply stilled and arms flung around my waist, palms _clapped_ in their union on my shoulders.

"W-what-"

"That's so sad, you know, Orchid. I- I'm sorry; I just wanted to hug you. Right now. F-for even a little while, you know." While the hunger is stilled. "It's really kind of sad. You... I really wanna be your girlfriend.

"Just your girlfriend." And so she must be kissed; so there must be the embrace's slow syrupy ease. There must be fingers twisted and tangled and knotted together like daisy-chains being wrought without their sumptuous lurid essence in feminine confluence and there must be a kiss, also. Patiently, unhurriedly, and it is to know the deeper entropy reaching up with great groping talons to flay our orderly delusions from our bones and from our meat and from souls, also.

We are bare and exposed and trembling in this place, sodden with the blood that gathers, that rears up in its effusion. It is not our vanities' bonfire; it is nothing so theatrical. It is more, and less, also; it is less, and more. We will kiss, and kiss, and kiss.

And there is the will to wilt.

Falter.

"Would you still like to be my sub today, though, Yuri- _chi_?" And the words are gingerly negotiated, a constellation of land mines strung with languid whimsy like some pyromaniac Johnny Appleseed's demented produce.

"Ngn? Oh. Yeah. I, ah, I kinda would. Y'know, 's exciting, right? Seeing your girlfriend at work? I, ah... I really would. 'less you think it's a bad idea now. Or- or something?" With immense quivering eyes.

"No. No. No. I'd love it."

And so it is. And so it must be. Surrender and tyranny; tyranny and surrender. A great wheeling smear of yin and yang and a yang and yin and there is a will and a conviction to renounce these absolutes. A woman is yin; a woman is the passionate dark inscrutable _essence_ that fuels the universe in its gloom. The moon's sharp cold mercury glint; the blade's luster in its quicksilver violences; the fingers and the lusts and the cravings, also. The Malāika named Layla, also, whose flesh is rarefied in its _perfected_ humanity.

It is not a sexless horror rearing up millions of miles in height. Layla is known in her immediacies, in her simple being. She is beauty personified; she is grace and allure. She is man's terror embodied.

I am become her. All women _must_ be. Know the fabric and the flesh and know that it is ultimately meaningless, this triviality. The taxi's passage through streets slopping and sloshing with the sun's sodden immensity that is not a texture and light and even warmth but a haze that effaces these things, _annuls_ them from the senses. She is here, a figure wrought in grace and elegance, in that most fundamental that most _quintessential_ femininity. It is to be awed with this; it is to know that the oblivious eyes are transfixed with you, yes, but the most sumptuous beauty is _this_. It is yours; captured in fleeting flitting glimpses through your peripheral vision like a gasp of the Caribbean snatched through a U-boat's periscope spearing up through the hot mirrored chop.

The long long legs shimmer with fabric effulgent in its metallic flecks, indigo stained with silvered starlight; the hair is damp and quivering with shadow and light's endless vacillating phantasmagoria; the makeup is something ostentatiously lusciously slutty in its pageantry, in the heavy theatrical thickness that invites fingers and lips and hands, that implores a touch, that will ward away even the tears that immense eyes entice wreathed in mascara-draped lashes like lacquered quills.

It is forever awe. The tits heavy and succulent and _pluming_ up with the clutching shelf bra pouring into a cinching tight bustier whose simple being is little more than a burlesque in its obedience to modesty's fantastical febrile fictions. There is no propriety; the skirt is an exalted belt, sighing up up up to its waist slapped around her belly's fine faint roundness.

The heels could roast lamb; high high high belief-beggaring in their height, an awkward wheeling vertiginous brilliance in violet leather.

I am entranced.

Fingers creep; slowly, slowly, slowly, it is an ineluctable and irresistible caress. Knees stroked; fingertips will prod and jab and meander and maunder and they are vagabond, whispering along the satiny elegance that trembles with our culture's defining word.

 _More_.

Yes.

Yes.

 _More_. _More_. _More_. A shudder and a coo slipping up up up from her lips and it is to know an elemental _divinity_ in this. In her knees' crack together; in eyes flaring open with a flourish of heavy thick lashes.

With a strangled little gasp.

"Ngn... D-don't tease me, O-Orchid-"

"Who said I'm teasing you?" Because the palm must creep higher, higher. It will surmount; it is Hillary confronting Everest with only the supremest conviction.

There is no fabric cradling that soft plump skin between them.

A stroke.

A brush.

Once; twice; again and again and again and it isn't impatient stabbing violence but a sublime patience. Pet her with slow languorous caresses; a finger's faint little _quirk_ surrenders to its black unknowable gravity, dragged deeper now. Falling to the first knuckle, and then a second, and a palm is her modesty now while the skirt's ruffled hem is little more than fleeting memory, beachy convolutions to be dragged up up up.

Head thrown back against the groaning _faux_ -leather seat.

"A-ahn..." A whimper not _bitten back_ ; it is gnawed, gnashed, teeth like a feral leopard's fangs tearing and ripping and twisting.

And lips brushed upon her cheeks.

"Don't hold anything back, all right, Yuri- _chi_? There's no reason for you to defile yourself with _shame_ 's cruel kiss." And so she must not. While the body's twist and quirk is savored; while the spine bows and it is to know the simple _novelty_ in all of this.

In her thighs eased apart; in lips lacquered with gloss that shimmers brilliant in the subdued sun smearing itself over the windows, slopping on her lap.

And I am there; it is hair in its effusion like a scorpion's obsidian husk broken and ground and spun into silk and it is her palms now.

"A-ahn, ahn, ah, ah, ah, Orchid! Orchid-"

"Don't you _dare_ try to silence yourself, all right?" With eyes flitting up up up to greet hers; with a quick wink that reduces knees to gelatin and her spine to overwatered aspic grazed with a crème brûlée torch, once, and again, and again, and again. While the tongue flits out, coils serpentine up and down and up and down; while her fingers clutch and grope and finally, finally, taste purchase in hair pillowy in its immensity.

It is a fetishistic sublime; it is age in its figments of the absolute manipulated and warped and her harlot's painted elegances declaim maturity or our delirium of this to be found in lust's confident cravings and mine is something subdued, discrete, the ideal that is the student. High school; the familiar uniform in its traumas tasted in their sartorial immanences.

Kitten-heeled Mary Janes and ruffled skirt and the familiar ridiculous jacket.

Palms on her thighs.

"Orchid, Orchid, it's- I- I'm... I'm already g-g-gonna come-"

"So _come_ , _Big Sister_." Ah, ah, ah, it is to know the fetishery in _this_. In the tension that _spears_ through her fingers; in strain that becomes pressure that becomes crush-depth, _heaving_ my tongue's wriggling wet strokes closer and closer and deeper and deeper.

"W-waaah! Ah, ah, ah, f-f-fuck! Fuck! Fuck! So so so so _so_ good." Dreamy glazed eyes and drowsy slurred burbling. "A-ahn, ah-"

"Ah, um, M-Miss, we're- we're... Here?" The cabbie's eyes are wrought in fear and the voice announces a strain that could probably gouge through a knight's steel underwear. "I, uh, um-"

"Thanks." And there is only the will to slip closer, closer, craning over the seat with lips like enameled cherry petals mawkish with _her_. "This is for you." Three thousand tucked into his palm. "I think the show's enough, wasn't it, for a tip?"

Creep out, out, out. Bound into the hotel's familiar banalities; taste the quotidian, the legitimately _everyday_ in the inexpressible tedium conceived for minds whose drowsy somnolence, whose imperishable somnambulism, craves only perfect purified _sameness_. The perversion named _international_. It is generic humanity.

It is the Japanese Ideal. We of Nihon clamor for this unbroken averageness. We will sneer and scowl and snarl at the rancorous throng that would rupture this consensus.

We will grovel before those that still persevere, that capture this sublime we dare call success.

We are hypocrites. We are not alone. The room is a tribute to the familiar; it is the sainted pallor that declaims purity in its decadence-by-Ikea fixtures; in the glass and the steel and the glass-and-steel and the heavy carpeting like a geriatric Marine's crew-cut.

It is rich with perfume's heavy feminine lather; it is a sense of the unreal in the sumptuous femininity cradled there on the sofa.

"H-h-hi. I, um, I... I told them you were expecting me." Because she is beautiful; because the proportions are refugees from a porno manga. Because the breasts are not breasts but _tits_ , titties, ah, ah, absolutely fuckin' _tit-anic_. Ah, what witticism. A sumptuous spectacle, an _artfulness_ , in the play-pretend porno-perfect Chinese grace that is nothing that whispers of the Middle Kingdom. The dimension are succulent; the slit does not creep and does not climb but _mantles_ the legs incredible in their length, enough for two or three women, yes, or perhaps five or six, shapely and curvaceous and twinkling with stockings lambent in their satiny pallor against dusky skin.

The cheeks are kissed with the familiar sun-dappled elegances; the lips glint with alabaster that bellows sensual promise that's no mere innuendo; the eyes, also, curtained in a negative frosted shadow that is more a pornographic sense of consummation. Hair in its thick auburn immensity puddles on her shoulders, spills down down down to the hips that mesmerize in their simple _roundness_.

"W-wow. Wow." And there is forever the incredulity in her eyes. In the quality like sapphire not washed of its every imperfection but muddled and addled but there is still the blue-eyed liar's kiss.

There is a tremor.

A quiver.

Her knees entice more than a glance. It is to know tyranny's simple privilege. The delectation in _ownership_ ; in the candid indulgence that not proprietariness but only _possession_ can offer.

"This is my sub, Yuri- _chi_. You will call her _Yuri- **himei**_. Do you understand, Yuki- _tan_?" Silence reigns.

A swallow scribes its slow thick passage through her slender neck.

"Do you fucking understand me, you dull-eyed _cow_ of a whore?! Look at those fucking udders; they must be monopolizing your body's blood if you didn't fucking _answer_ me." And there is not merely a step.

A lunge.

Once.

And again.

A palm _slashed_ through the heavy hot air to find purchase on a cheek; a sharp crack becomes a _clap_ , becomes fingers lacing through her curls.

"Y-y-yes! Yes, yes, yes, Mistress Orchid! I- I'm so sorry, Mistress-"

" _I_? _**I**_? Who the fuck told you that you're entitled to an _I_ yet? That you're entitled to an I _ever_? You're my whore, Yuki- _tan_. Tell me. Tell me. Get down on your knees, you filthy useless whore. That's all you are; you're a hole for cock. Girl-cock; boy-cock; _any_ fucking cock. Get down, goddammit!" A pull; a jerk; a tug.

Her knees a sudden sharp _thump_ on the carpeting's cushioning.

A warble rearing up from lips rubbery with algolagnia's sumptuous junk-madness.

"Y-y-yes, yes, yes, Yuki- _tan_ is- is Mistress' hole! Yuki- _tan_ is Mistress' hole! She promises! Yuki- _tan_ promises!" With only a plea for that sainted word, _more_. More more more. It is an all-you-can-eat fanaticism; it is a clamoring for abuse.

For the palm's scarlet tattoo on the cheek.

Once.

Again; hand drawn back and cracked down. It is a collective delirium; it is to know the syringe tasting a joy-bang with the intensity that races up and down and up and down every fucking vein and artery, that snatches up every nerve with overwrought twanging frenzy and pulls and rips and jerks and strains 'til the body pleads only for annihilation, to be distended and broken and simply _steeped_ in the junk's delirium.

She is mine.

I am hers.

And Noriko, or is it Yuri- _chi_ now, or does it even fucking matter? She is here.

The knees' trembling serenade.

"Yuri- _chi_ , what're you doing? Come here."

"Y-yes, yes, Orchid-"

"That's Orchid- _sama_." But there is...

Is a delicacy.

Is a hand offered to brush with dainty mesmerism over a cheek.

"Orchid- _sama_." And Yuri- _chi_ 's voice scalding in the ears, hot eddying churns that slosh and slop and drool down down down between your thighs.

It is to know control slipping.

It is the Tyrant's bed shared; and the bed is forever also the throne.

"Hit her." A chin jerked at the genuflecting beauty; at the play-pretend Yukiko. It is a wish and a will that this must be. "Hit her, Yuri- _chi_."

"W-what? Orchid- _sama_ , I- I don't know if I can-"

"If you don't want to be on the floor beside her, _mewling_ like a bitch in heat when I'm beating you 'til your body will be tattooed black with bruises, you'll hit her." Because the heels soar; because there is a decorum in this.

A pattern and an order.

"Haven't you ever _touched_ another woman, Yuri- _chi_?"

"N-n-not really. Only you, Orchid- _sama_." Awe and delirium and there is a bliss, also. A quick feathery pulsation rippling with butterfly fervor through her throat, through the creamy lush skin. "I, um-"

"You should, you know. It's not as if she's here by anything but her own _craving_ to be abused, to be brutalized. She's nothing but a fuck-pig; she's nothing but a whore; nothing but a _hole_. Aren't'cha, Yuki- _tan_?"

There is awe in the immense eyes ringed with lashes that bristle with obsidian enormity; with the dusting in slutty gyaru pallor.

" _Aren't_ you?"

"Yuki- _tan_ is- is the _hugest_ whore Yuri- _himei_ has ever met. Yuki- _tan_ _**prooomises**_." Cooing; gurgling. A wanton quivering psychosis. "Yuki- _tan_ is- is _filled_ with her lover's jizz-"

"H-her lover?" Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes are for me. Imploring.

An interrogation.

"Ngn. Of course." How could it not be accentuated with a long slow stroke? "She has a lover. A husband who's either blind or the planet's hugest fucking faggot. How could he _not_ adore this luscious lavish flesh?" With a hand outstretched, cradling the flesh clasped in the qipao's affectations of silk modesty.

Plump.

Grandiose.

Hefted and weighed and dragged up up up and permitted to fall again with a quivering gelid tremor.

Delirious.

"It's so fucking delicious. There's nothing _plastic_ about this, you know. You should touch her, Yuri- _chi_. You should." Drag her palm closer, closer, closer. "She's so familiar, isn't she? C'mon; c'mon. You can recognize the woman she could cosplay without _aaaany_ ordeal at all.

"Right?"

"Y-yes. But, um, I mean, 's just... S-she really _does_ look a lot like Kudō Yukiko. 's kinda- kinda weird. It feels like I'm staring at her in the tee-vee, and, um, I- I really always admired Kudō Yukiko. She's so beautiful."

And this is our admiration.

It is not her talent; it is not her sublime technique.

"Well, she _isn't_ Yukiko. Is she?" A glance down at the figure.

Would it matter?

 _Could_ it matter?

It is only to admonish.

"She's only _meat_ ; she's degraded herself in being exactly what she is. Aren't you, Yuki- _tan_? You even introduced yourself in your groping plea for _this_ , for this delectable abuse, as being such a _remarkable_ likeness of Kudō Yukiko.

"I don't even care if she _is_. It's just... It's so _strange_. Your lover. How prolific are _they_ , Yuki- _tan_?" There is a tension, sharp, furrowing, _seaming_ the flesh in its taut youthful grace.

It is not age invalidated but only denied in this.

It is the surgeon's finesse in the scalpel's furtive kiss.

It is perhaps inscrutable better-living-through-chemistry alchemies.

"I've tasted them _elsewhere_ , you know. Some... Some _unplaceable_ bit of sweetness; it's barely even human. So who the fuck are they? Is it _that_ sensitive?" The eyes immense, pleading, a wheeling tortured quaver. "C'mon, Yuki- _tan_. Not a single _word_? Come. _On_." It is for every whisper, every breath, to be punctuated with the palm's quick crack on her cheek.

"Come _on_. What the _**fuck**_ is wrong with you?" With fingers laced around her throat; with the neck in its swanlike elegance _stained_ , dimpled. "Hit her, Yuri- _chi_." We are fueled with an ideal named _shame_.

It is terror; it is something profounder than this. It is _horror_ ; it is to dread terror's heavy cyanide burble in the belly. It is to know the judgment in the eyes that _**must must must must know**_.

You will be _one of those people_ if those boundaries are transgressed. There are thresholds, aren't there? And this is one of them. You will no longer be kissed with exalted normality. You will be _one of those people that slap women_.

That batter men.

And it is captured now, snatched up in an open palm. A heavy hot wet _slap_ at Yuki- _tan_ 's cheek.

The eyes crane up to clutch at mine.

"W-wha... Whoa... T-that- that feels so fuckin' weird. I- I've never hit anybody before in my entire life! I always wanted to beat the shit out of my mom! And- and Yuki- _tan_ is so much prettier than even _she_ is. You are, Yuki- _tan_.

"You're so beautiful-"

"Don't only laud and adulate our whore, our _hole_ , Yuri- _chi_." To admonish, to _remonstrate_. It's the essence of a finger waggled at a petulant puppy whose tails thrashes with the burnished bronzed puddle creeping over your carpeting.

"A-ah, right. S-sorry. But, um, she- she is-"

"Oh, she _is_ , isn't she? You know, Yuki- _tan_ , you really _are_ desperately fuckin' pathetic. A pair of young women who could... Well, Yuri- _chi_ so easily _could_ be your daughter. You're in your late forties, right? Or is it _fifties_?" There is shame.

Heat straining up through the makeup's kiss in its effusion slathered with its lavishly _cheap_ theater, its artistry, that could only be extortionate.

"Y-yes-"

"Yuri- _chi_ is younger than even _I_ am. And I'm sure _I_ could be your daughter, also. Mmm... Look at you there. On your knees. I think you should introduce yourself to Yuri- _chi_. Won't you?" It's...

It's not an act of surrender.

It is not the self-flagellation, the exuberant self-inflicted algolagnia in gouging jealousy's rusting dagger with misfiring and tangled synapses through the belly, through every inch, flaying and plaiting the twisted meat into great convoluted braids that must be tugged and jerked and it is something deeper and it is something wickeder than merely the fangs' gnash and nip and nibble at the lip raw and maimed.

It is simply to settle upon one of the banal chairs in their bleached cream upholstery.

It is to admire; the directrix's vantage. Perhaps it should be framed with fingers converging into a play-pretend camera.

She is beautiful.

"You're so lovely, Yuri- _chi_. Don't be so _anxious_ about it; you look terrified." And it is true, isn't it? The knees' tremor and the fingers groping now at Yuki- _tan_ 's shoulders in their lissome silk-draped sleekness while there is only obedience.

Only _compliance_.

Closer.

Closer.

Stockinged knees on the carpeting.

"Ngn... You _are_ so so so pretty, you know, Yuri- _himei_? Yuki- _tan_ is so excited. She's never had _two_ Mistresses to play with her before." It's an invitation to the palm.

To the fist.

An aural cudgel.

"Don't fuckin' delude yourself, Yuki- _tan_." And my voice is perhaps more a battering ram upon fine stained glass. "She is _not_ your Mistress; she's just one of _Mistress_ ' playmates. But it will be lovely, won't it?

"Mmm... Yuri- _chi_ isn't a filthy cum-drooling whore like you; she's never really even had a man _raw_ in her before. Not like your nasty hole. Is the plug there?"

"Yes! Yes!" With her chin scribing deft crazed quavering strokes. "Yes, yes, yes! Yuki- _tan_ promises, Mistress Orchid. Yuki- _tan_ is- is _filled_ with... With her lover's nasty cum. There's so much of it. L-like last time, you know?

"They came inside Yuki- _tan_ , an' then they just... Just _stayed_ there an' Yuki- _tan_ kept stroking them again and again and again, and they kept coming again and again and again and Yuki- _tan_ is _aaaaalllll_ full of it." It's crazed, trilling, a demented high singsong coo.

And Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes could probably accommodate a fifty-course meal.

"Really? How _much_ -"

"Seven loads! Yuki- _tan_ got seven loads out of her lover; an' they're big big _big_. So nice; so _hot_. Yuki- _tan_ is all overflowing with 'em, too. There're just _too_ many. An'... An' Yuki- _tan_ 's belly's all full with it. Do you wanna feel, Yuri- _himei_?" It is a perfection, a sublimity, admiring this figure in her garrulous gurgling degradation.

It is a plea for more.

For less, also.

"A-ah, um-"

"Be _decisive_ , Yuri- _chi_. You're her _tyrant_ ; you're not an equal. You're a fucking owner. You're a princess. You're a peremptory _bitch_ who's not _permitted_ to be as wicked as she'd like. No, no, _no_. It's divine right.

"It's been _mandated_ ; Heaven has spoken, and this is your simple privilege. To beat her. To kick her. To _strangle_ her. To do anything. She's pleading for the royal indulgence in you condescending to grace her with your violence.

"Can't you taste it?"

It is something palpable.

An aura.

A heaving _heavy_ mist curtaining the senses; a sumptuous sexual delirium that throbs and shudders and shivers and _roars_ in great bubbling swarms through the suite's every reach. It is to know more than merely its being.

A _visitation_.

An immanence.

"Don't you wanna feel Yuki- _tan_ 's slutty belly, _aaaallll_ filled with cum? An'... An' Yuki- _tan_ 's ass is filled with it, too. Not only her pussy." There's a puppy's plea for a mistress' cosseting caress.

" _Really_?" And this is her Mistress' judgment. "Did Mistress Orchid _order_ you to do that?"

"Nngn... It's- it's only..." With eyes averted; with _play-pretend_ pangs in guilt and self-recrimination. "Yuki- _tan_ wanted to do something nice. To- to fill herself as much as Mistress Orchid said she'd love to see!

"Yuki- _tan_ almost has a pregnant belly with it!" The qualifier is self-evident.

It is not _almost_.

There is merely shape's meagrest whisper, slithering through the qipao; it is an inkling of dimension, of geometry. It is to know a quirk and convolution in the creamy lake's geography.

"Touch it, Yuri- _chi_. Would you like Orchid to direct you until you have the confidence to abuse our little whore _right_?" Still seated.

 _Enthroned_.

"Y-yes, yes, Orchid- _sama_." All is with figments of order.

It is our craving.

It is our sainted poison; it is our most delectable venom. It is the asp to be cradled against our breast; it is to taste the flesh dimple and and strain and finally finally finally _yield_ to that sumptuous ravaging junk.

It is another heroin.

It is another opium.

It is another cocaine.

Pain. Pain. Pain. It is a plea for this orderly figment's annihilation; it is to adorn your finely manicured fingers with ragged talons and with hands clutching and groping tear huge _wads_ from reality's gelid fabric. To wrench it away; to shovel its immensity in your jaws gnashing and snapping and animated alone with a fervor for this Truth's annihilation.

It is self-evidently only lies; it can _only_ be lies.

She is delicious.

"Then I'll tell you to _slap_ Yuki- _tan_ again for her petulance; even the _best-intentioned_ truculence is an act of disobedience that just _shouldn't_ be countenanced." It is the tyrant's simple wisdom. It is for Yuri- _chi_ 's palm now to adorn Yuki- _tan's_ pleading flesh.

Again.

Again.

Again. It is for there only to be madness. It is not merely the first trembling moments in the coalescing joy-bang, while the needle lurks oh so so so _so_ near in its siren song enchantment, the light captured with the tiniest glint that flares, that burgeons, that _bloats_ into the sun captured not in a pocket but only in its prickling peak.

It is an act of mesmerism.

Adore.

Admire.

Do you dare?

There is fear. Reality's collective propaganda, its indoctrination, this cannot perhaps be shrugged away without terror's scrawling frisson wriggling up up up through every muscle's every sinew, through every nerve's every trembling thread.

It is to believe.

It is to Believe.

I will not Believe; I will _never_ Believe. It is a fervor not to do so; it is a wish and a will to renounce this corruption and this perversion.

She will stab it now.

The plunger caressed.

 _Slapped_ down.

Down.

 _ **Down**_.

The periscope's plunge.

A torpedo spread that could reduce the fucking _Bismarck_ to blackened wreckage; that could lay waste to fleets and perhaps wrench San Francisco into the Pacific.

Ah!

Ah!

A shiver.

"Ah! Ah! F-fuck, fuck, fuck!" With eyes immense; with tears already coalescing in Yuki- _tan_ 's eyes and there is no longer the will, no longer the _conviction_ , to recoil from this. Yes. Yes. She is A Woman That Beats Women.

At their exhortation; at their importuning whimpers and mewls and pleas.

Once.

And again.

"T-that feels so strange. I- I feel, l-like, kinda nauseous, but... But 's so _fuckin' good_!" With Yuri- _chi_ 's voice more an articulated helium squeal. "W-wow, wow, wow, I-"

"Do what you _want_ , Yuri- _chi_. Really. I'm _urging_ you; not commanding you." The smile is conquest, however.

It is to peer down at your thronging pathetic supplicants, groveling, genuflecting, kowtowing, and it is to savor the wisdom that this is not wrought in steel and blood and the executioner's cold tolling voice and the gallows' snap and tremor and Madame Guillotine's cold kiss on the nape of the neck but only inculcation's simple perfection.

Faith.

Yes.

 _Faith_.

This is the word. It is the simpleminded conviction that it must be; none other can even be countenanced in the flesh, in the spirit, in the soul. It is divinely anointed; it is Heaven's Order.

All Under Heaven.

And Under Heaven, All Under The Tyrant.

Under The Empress.

"A-ah, okay. Ngn... I- it's just... I'm kinda embarrassed-"

"Don't be. It's for _you_ ; for _me_. And, well, it's what _this_ whore wants."

"T-then, um... I- I want you to..." There is still fear's brutal stripe raw and livid on the cheeks. "I want you-"

" _Order_ her, Yuri- _chi_!"

"I want you to lick me!" Breathless; shivering. "I- I can't believe... I mean..." With eyes immense; more than merely _immense_.

Continental.

"I want you to lick my pussy. I want you to lick my pussy. It's- it's here. It's here for you." Fingers dragging up the perfunctory skirt's even more perfunctory hem with quivering awe.

With incredulity staining every _inch_.

"I- I want it so much. I want you to lick my pussy-"

" _Order_ her!" She must be commanded.

To command.

She must be commanded to command.

It must be demanded of her to demand.

She is merely a princess; yes, yes.

Delicious.

Lovely.

And still, still, merely a princess.

"Lick my pussy! L-lick my pussy, whore. You dirty fucking slave. Lick it. Lick it. Lick it!" And there can be no disobedience; it is something reflexive. A compliant dog's urgent submission.

Knelt and lurching closer, closer.

"Ah, ah, you're so pretty, Yuri- _himei_. M-may Yuki- _tan_ drool all over you like the adoring cunt she is?" It's a sublimity to savor the hungry mewling, the crazed lust-tortured whimpering, slosh through the ears. "Is it all right, Mistress Orchid, t-to beg for Mistress' Yuri- _himei_ to abuse her? To tell her how beautiful she is?"

"Of course, whore. And she is. Would I ever gravitate toward an _ugly_ sub? Yuri- _himei_ is prettier than your Mistress is, after all." There is...

Is an idiot incredulity flowering through Yuri- _chi_ 's cheeks, twisting her face into our exalted cognitive dissonance.

But Yuki- _tan_ will not disbelieve.

If the sun is blueberry, so it is.

If the moon is a tangerine, so it must be, and always has been.

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Yuri- _himei_ is the most beautiful girl Yuki- _tan_ 's ever seen; Yuki- _tan_ is just... Just amazed. Yuri- _himei_ 's pussy's so soft an' pretty. And- and the hair is so beautiful, too. Yuki- _tan_ isn't allowed to have pussy hair.

"It's so nice to see. May Yuki- _tan_ lick you now, Yuri- _himei_?" It is with awe.

With astonishment. For the student tormented and steeping in a pathetic throttling musty efficiency to be confronted with this luscious grandiose excess, with the luxury in one of beauty's embodiments _pleading_ to venerate, to adore, that sainted flesh?

"Yes. Yes. You may. I'm _ordering_ you to lick my cunt now. I- I want you to just use your mouth; you're not allowed to do _anything_ with your fingers but just... Just stroke my thighs. I want you to stroke my thighs, slave." It's cliché.

Yes.

 _Slave_?

Fucking anemic. But there is still blood.

"Worship my legs. Aren't- aren't my legs pretty, Yuki- _tan_? You're so fucking gorgeous. You look _so_ much like Kudō Yukiko; I- I feel like I'm really fucking an actress. I love Yukiko's movies so much. I- I- I touch myself _all_ the time when I watch her policewoman movies.

"I can't keep my hands off myself. I even stroked it in the theater once. I- I was with a date, an' he was so boring, and Yukiko was _so_ hot." Knees shuddering now. "Aren't my legs pretty, Yuki- _tan_?"

"They are; they are. Yuri- _himei_ 's legs are so so so beautiful-"

"Even if I weren't Yuri- _himei_?" It is sincerity's plea.

There is no candor here.

It is only candor.

"Yes. Yes. Yes. Your legs are so long and beautiful and- and _shapely_ , Yuri- _himei_. Yuri- _himei_ is such a gorgeous young girl; it drives Yuki- _tan_ 's slutty nasty pussy _**insane**_ to be with pretty young girls. Yuki- _tan_ is just so so so sick!

"Mistress Orchid _knows_ how sick she is." And there are fingers now; even the nails shimmer with pallid polish. Brushed up and down and up and down and now, now, the touch _cradles_ Yuri- _chi_ 's curvaceous thighs; her lips creep closer, and closer, and closer, and it is not the prepackaged better-living-through-chemistry sexuality in porno, in the banality in fabrication, in manufacturing, in compartmentalized fetishery consummated in dull dim indifferent eyes and cold meat denuded of lust and fueled with desperation alone.

It is for the audience.

The audience is forever deprived.

This is its authenticity in shape, in shadow, in geometry; it is the simple reality in the bodies' luscious softness and firmness; in the planes and rises and creases, also. In the heavy sumptuous flesh; in the _skin_.

The skin.

The sweat lambent in its twinkling motes and great sheets creeping over Yuri- _chi_ 's cheeks, her brow plastered with it, her hair simply enameled to sodden flesh.

"A-ah... Ah... O-oh, oh, oh, _oh_. Yuki- _tan_... I- I'm gonna call you _Yukiko_." It is the burlesque abandoned; it is the production betrayed.

It is for a ballistic missile to crunch through the waltz band.

And still, still, the dance must persevere.

Because whether she is or is not Yukiko is meaningless; because she is _this_ Yukiko, the fantastical elegance, the gray eminence, that dwells in fantasy's dreamy embrace.

"Ahn..." Shivering; quivering; high high high heels are suspect purchase on the floor now, thumping once, twice, a muffled flamenco cadence. "I- I'm gonna... I'm gonna come right away!" A woman's flesh is beauty in its most elemental guise.

It is not a man's frailty; not the cruelty in impotence or the rancid-wine prematurity. No, no, no.

There is no anguish in the refractory period.

It's only raw shuddering madness.

Only the eyes flaring open and the lids in their leaden hugeness tumbling closed; in the knees splayed and thighs cradled with palms slathered in wet sodden hunger over the fabric-draped skin. With tongue lolling out, buried in that sumptuous nexus of skin and heat and desire.

 _Wreathed_ with femininity's ineffable perfumes.

"A-ah... Ah... D-don't stop; don't stop; keep lickin'... Lickin' me, Yukiko- _tan_. Ah, ah, ah, it feels so fucking _good_!" Doubled over; trembling; _convulsive_.

It's a perfection, isn't it? To admire this?

And it is to know the elegance, the insouciance, in the voyeur's onanism. In your own fingers' hungers clutching and groping and adoring; in a palm cradling your belly; in a hand falling between your legs. In the slow achingly patient brush through syrupy flesh; in lips splayed open, _split_ apart, carved into bifurcated delectation.

One.

And two.

And three.

More, more, more, more more. Not with head thrown back; not with Yuri- _chi_ 's carnal melodrama; only with attention.

With fanaticism for _this_ ; for the simple perfection in communion, in your own flesh savored through _their_ delirium. With Yuki- _tan_ 's eyes not clenched closed in some delirious delectation in shame but only with heavy-lidded bliss; with the sticky wet caresses in her lips' spatter and her tongue's squelching, rearing up and plunging down, again, again, again, with a fervor for feminine skin.

For the wet scalding lust bubbling up; more, more, more.

With affirmation in Yuri- _chi_ 's sobs.

"O-oh, oh, oh, it feels so fucking _amazing_. I- I just... I wanna _come_ so much; n-n-not just come, but, l-like, like, really _come_ , like... Like you made me come, Orchid- _saaamaaaa_!" Quailing; cooing.

"So order her. She knows; she understands the technique-"

"I want _yoouuuuu_!" It's enchantingly bratty, isn't it? "I want you to fuck me, Orchid- _sama_! Y-you brought so many toys, right? W-won't you?"

"You've just _no_ respect for decorum, have you, Yuri- _chi_?" With long-suffering delight that roils the belly with expectation.

Standing.

Standing.

The sartorial surreality in the schoolgirl's costume while they're adorned with an adult sublime in its every connotation.

With the heels soft rustle along the carpeting.

The cadence is achingly patient, plodding.

The hips' slow swing in its predatory grace.

"I- I don't wanna have any decorum! I wanna fuck! I wanna fuck! Want you to fuck me from behind while Yukiko eats me! It's a fantasy I've always had." Oh so persuasive.

"For about fifty seconds?"

"S-seventy, at least! I wannit! I wannit! I'm your brat, right, Orchid- _saaamaaa_?" Delirium; delectation.

Ah, ah, ah.

It _spears_.

Tears.

"Well, all _right_. Orchid- _sama_. It's just... Irresistible. Orchid- _neechan_ will indulge you; Orchid- _neechan_ just can't refuse you. Can she?" Fingers clutch at the parcel slung over the sullen slouched coffee table in its shin-battering glass banality.

Wrenched open.

It's an enchanted garden of lust.

Of perversions.

Fingers brushed along its acreages in better-living-through-chemistry sexuality.

In latex.

Silicone.

In its perfections.

In its rubberized elegances.

Sharp and lambent and creamy and muddled and sentimental and there is only flesh, flesh, flesh announced in this.

"Now? You'd really love it _that_ much now, Yuri- _chi_?"

"Uh-huh. Uh-huh." Accentuated, _embellished_ , with a nod that could probably be a convenient surrogate pile driver. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. I- I want you to fuck me from behind. I wanna do it that way-"

"Even if we haven't really even fucked yet?" With a languid sway and wheel and sashay; with the dance in its succulent eternality.

With lips brushed through her hair's satiny sleek grace.

"Ngn... It's just... Why not _now_? You said you'd show me your job; it's take your lil' sister to work day. Call me _little sister_. Please. Please, Orchid- _neechan_ -" Wheedling, beseeching. A puppyish exhortation.

Pettish.

"Well, _maaaaybe_."

"Please, please, _please_."

"If you _reaaaally_ beg." A whisper shivers through her hair in its lacquered lush bob. "If you _reaaally_ beg-"

"H-how do I really beg?" With eyes spearing through the thick satin obsidian curtain that's an exercise in some fanciful modesty for Yuki- _tan_ in her whore's repose, knelt without complaint, a carnal genuflection.

"Ngn... I think you _know_ how to beg. To fuck her _right_. To mount her face; to be _as rough_ as Yuki- _tan_ needs. She won't always be satisfied with the novelty in a _very_ young lady like you. She _is_ a bit of an ephebophile, isn't she?

"I wonder why? A lust for a daughter, maybe? A friend's high school-aged daughter?" And there is a kiss; a kiss. "And you should kiss _me_ , honey." Lips coaxed, urged, enticed. And indulged.

Wet.

Slow.

Syrupy.

Heavy succulent groans rear up in great welling effusion from the throat with Yuki- _tan_ 's merciless achingly practiced caresses.

"S-she's makin' me _come again_! I- I feel like I'm goin' crazy, 'nee-chan. I- I really do; I really do. 'cause- 'cause it feels like something should be coming out, and it's not! I want it want it want it want it _want it_ -"

"How badly? How badly do you want it?"

"Baaaad! Bad, bad, bad, bad, _bad_!"

"Then there'll be something _else_. You're not just going to face-fuck her; you're going to avail yourself of one of our _delectable_ toys, too, Yuri- _chi_." There's only awe; only incredulity.

"W-whaddaya mean, 'nee-chan?" It's such unpretentious petulance, ain't it?

"Ngn... You _know_ what I mean, don't you?" With fingers plucking, tugging, pulling, twisting; with her tits' heavy plump flesh tasted in a languid little brush, in a graze, up and down and up and simply down down down now swept with cradling ebullience over her belly's lovely lavish softness layered on tight cinching strength.

And down further still; a brush at Yuki- _tan_ 's cheeks in their slutty airbrushed perfection.

"A-ah, um, it's just, those- _those_ toys-"

"Aren't you just _clamoring_ to feel it? To know a boy's hungry selfish bliss when they pump and pump and pump and just... Just _melt_ into it? I know it's just a pathetic counterfeit. Probably. Like smearing honey on a cucumber and calling it a melon.

"But we can't ever _haaave_ melons; or not yet, anyway. So why not?"

"It's- it's really that great? I love that fakey melon." With eyes not merely glazed but _glassed_ ; with a heaving sexual insanity roaring through every inch.

"Uh- _huh_ -"

"I- I wanna try. But, um, I- I mean, y'know... Doesn't she- she have those plugs in an' stuff-"

"Not _one_ hole." Ah, ah, ah, isn't it achingly self-evident? The lips in their creamy allure; the _plumpness_ that refuses to shed its satiny pallor.

Dragged away with a quick tug; transfixed with Yuki- _tan_ 's eyes, dark, delirious, dreamy, dazed, a simple fundamental carnal _psychosis_ adorning the quivering puddles in liar's blue.

"A-ahn... Ahn... Yuki- _tan_ 's mouth-pussy is always here for Mistress Orchid! And- and Yuri- _himei_. Yuri- _himei_ is so pretty; Yuki- _tan_ would- would just _love_ Yuri- _himei_ 's big hard hot girlcock." Pleading, cooing, beseeching.

Because it is my command.

Because it is her craving, also.

"And _where_ would Yuki- _tan_ love Yuri- _chi_ 's huge hot hard girlcock?" It's a deep guttural invitation in its condescending plea. "Don't _say_ it; show us, won't'cha, Yuki- _tan_?"

"Heeere!" Gurgling, garrulous, with a fingertip _jabbed_ against her lips. "Heere! Yuki- _tan_ 's mouth-pussy-"

"It'll need to be deeper than _that_ , Yuki- _tan_. You wouldn't be cruel to Yuri- _chi_ , would you? Would you want to make a _terrible_ impression?"

"Uh- _uuuh_." Again, again, the sumptuous infantalism that clamors for fingers laced around her neck.

That pleads for discipline that is nothing maternal, and nothing paternal.

"Mistresses should fuck Yuki- _tan_ 's throat as _much_ as they'd like; however they'd like. Yuki- _tan_ 's slutty holes are there for her Mistresses-"

"Nng... It's- it's so fucking _hot_ to hear that." Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes more than swiveling, more than crazed; gimbaled twisting tumbling, marbles heaved into a fucking centrifuge. "I- I feel like I'm gonna pass out. I'm- I'm all... All fuzzy and- and muzzy and... And fluffy _here_." A palm clamped on Yuri- _chi_ 's heavy luscious tits; another on her brow. "I wanna do it so _bad_ -"

"Then do it." A palm _cracked_ on her ass. It's something irresistible, the skirt's meaningless bits of fabric tugged down down down with an urgent jerk.

There is only flesh.

Skin in its sublimity.

"Ah, ah, _ah_ , Yuri- _chi_. Your ass is... Is fucking _incredible_. Soon, soon, _soon_ , 'nee-chan'll be introducing you to _that_. And you can't say _no_ to that, can you? Doesn't it feel _sublime_ , Yuki- _tan_?"

"Uh- _huuuh_. Oh, oh, oh, Yuri- _chi_ can't even _imagine_ how amazing it feels! Yuki- _tan_ wantsta feel _two_ in there sometime. Yuki- _tan_ needs to be treated like a _real_ whore; just like Mistress Orchid says. Yuki- _tan_ needs to..." A quiver.

A trill.

It's something belief-beggaring.

To know a heavy bubbling weight leaden in _your_ gut, also.

Whatever the jadedness.

Whatever the debauchery.

"Yuki- _tan_ wantsta get _gangbanged_. She- she really does. To be totally _filled_ with girlcock; with all of Mistress Orchid's friends. It doesn't matter _who_ it is; it doesn't matter how many. Yuki- _tan_ just needs to get _filled_. To get stuffed; to get overstuffed.

"C'mon! C'mon! Yuki- _tan_ wantsta make you both feel so so so _good_."

"You're such a pathetic cock-drunk slut, aren't you, Yuki- _tan_? Fuck, _are_ you drunk? You look absolutely wasted." Sneering.

And still, still, there is an awareness of the knees' quiver.

Of the body's convulsions.

The hunger rearing up in its great slopping sloshing effusions.

"Ngn... Yuki- _tan_ has had a little to drink today; Yuki- _tan_ is even _drunker_ on lust. On all the jizz in Yuki- _tan_ 's belly. She's so full of it she could probably make _aaaanyone_ pregnant." Cooing, gurgling, giggling. "Does Mistress Orchid wanna see her belly?"

"I've already _seen_ it; it's not exactly _pregnant_. I hate fat girls, anyway." A kiss brushed with slow sticky languor along Yuri- _chi_ 's soft satiny cheek. "Ngn... Isn't Yuri- _chi_ just so deliciously fluffy, Yuki- _tan_? Y'understand what _fluffy_ means, don't you?"

"Uh- _huuuh_. She's- she's just so _soft_ ; she's so pretty; so _built_ , you know. Yuki- _tan_ is all jealous of how _sweet_ Yuri- _himei_ looks. Yuki- _tan_ would wanna be a princess, too." With palms _clapped_ at her tits cradled in the qipao's fetishistic fabrics. "Yuki- _tan_ wishes she could be a princess!"

"Oh, you _can_ be. You know, Yuri- _chi_ might be kind enough to anoint you her little-sister princess." With diablerie rearing up.

With one of the thick-bulbed figures cradled in a palm.

And there are eyes.

Yuki- _tan_ 's. Yuri- _chi_ 's.

A collective awe.

With the familiar's scrawling delirium; with the plea for another joy-bang when the syringe is not merely an exoticism but something precious, intimate, a key promising passage to wonderland delectation.

And for Yuri- _chi_ , only astonishment.

"W-whoa. 's so fuckin' big. The- the guys I've been with had... Had, y'know, what's _average_?" The answer is Yuki- _tan_ 's cooing little giggles.

Is a sigh flaring my chest.

"Ngn... Yuki- _tan_ wantsta aaaanswer!" Palms _clapped_ on her tits' huge heaving cartoonishly luscious effusion. "Yuki- _tan_ wantsa answer."

"What is it, Yuki- _tan_?" While another is gathered, also.

While their generous bulk is brushed in their numb neutrality along Yuri- _chi_ 's sumptuous soft thighs.

"Ngn... You know, most guys are really pretty _smaaalll_ , Yuri- _himei_. Don't feel so _bad_ ; girlcock is the _best_. The _best_. There're some well-endowed men, but there aren't _many_. The- the biggest Japanese Yuki- _tan_ has ever had was only about, oh," and there is a languorous reflection now, a fingertip clamped on her soft plump lips, yielding with the regular rhythmic patter, "Mmm... I think he was about six or seven inches.

"It wasn't really _amazing_. Ngn... But the _biggest_ Yuki- _tan_ ever had, ah, ah, it was probably eight or nine. It was _oookay_. It's still a boy; a boy isn't _anything_ like a girl. Girlcock _really_ _**is**_ the best, Yuri- _himei_. Don't feel bad; don't feel bad. Yuki- _tan_ 'll show you _**exactly**_ how nice it is.

"Ngn... Right, right, _Yukiko_. Yukiko is _so_ so _**so**_ happy that Yuri- _himei_ is here with Mistress Orchid." Liquor announces itself in its lavish abundance.

There is still only a madness, a crazed shuddering thrall, in lust's cradling embrace.

Its simple ravenous heat.

"Lemme suck you! Fuck Yukiko's mouth-pussy; c'mon. C'mon. Yukiko's mouth-pussy, her _throat-pussy_ , can bring Yuri- _himei_ off in only a minute. She's _very_ sure." Bubbly.

This is the word.

Effervescing with a sexual psychosis.

"Ah, um, ah... Orchid- _nee_ , is it okay? R-really? For me to do that?" With Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes trembling. "I, ah, I dunno really how to do it-"

"Let Orchid- _neechan_ help, then." Snatching up the dildo's long sleek voluptuous grace.

Panties are an extravagance.

They are something that should happen to other people.

"Are you wearing any panties, Yuki- _tan_?"

"Uh- _uh_." Declaimed with a pride you'd reserve for a Nobel medallion slung around your neck while you balance an Academy Award on a palm and a Naoki watch lashed around your wrist. "Absolutely _no_ panties.

"Yuki- _tan_ knows it'd only upset Mistress Orchid. Does Mistress Orchid wanna _seee_?"

"I trust you; you're definitely a depraved enough whore that I could really only need to see it if you said you _were_ wearing them. Come on; come on. Stand there, all right, Yuri- _chi_?" Admiring; adoring.

And there is stillness; trembling; silence without sound and fury, a churning venomous plea bitten back with clenched jaws. The eyes could devour universes akimbo.

She is beautiful.

Knelt.

Slowly, slowly, slowly; a palm clasped on her belly.

And the figure in its thick heavy dusky grace is eased up, up, up.

"You're _sure_ you're not a virgin, then, Yuri- _chi_? Not only pretension? This will _really_ end any pretension about that-"

"I- I'm really not. Trust me. I, ah, I _remember_ just how much it hurt. And, um, I use... I use a vibrator there, anyway?" It's with enchantment, with awe, that the flesh is admired; it is with astonishment that her eyes fall fall fall _plunge_ into it. "W-wow, that's, uh, I mean... It's fuckin' _huge_ , ain't it?

"That big thing. W-will that really fit in her?"

"It will fit in you, also. And me." The voice is less speech and more a thick articulated sigh. And it is...

 _Incredulity_.

Neurology in its science-faction communes with the flesh.

Latex becomes meat; circuitry warps itself into blood.

Hunger _boils_.

"W-waaaah! Whoa, whoa, whoa, it- it feels- it feels like I- I just... Just grew a- a-uh, I- uh, like, y'know, I mean... A- a..." Shivering with it.

Jaw working, groping at any purchase on language more elusive than a petroleum-lacquered ferret.

"A _cock_?" And there can only be a mischievous zeal to tease, to _torment_. With lips brushed over the thick crude _pummeling_ head; the awareness of its simple bulk. It is tasted in symmetry; in memory's convergence with reality's immediacy.

The word is perhaps not _empathy_.

It is strange, fleeting.

The Mandragora Daughter's madness.

It is to know a wish, a hope, that this is not.

It is to taste a clamoring that it be otherwise, also.

A kiss.

A kiss.

"Ngn... It- it feels so _weird_. H-how's that even p-p-possible?" Cooing, trilling, _quailing_. "O-oh, oh, fuck, Orchid! Orchid- _nee_! I- I'm already gonna pop-"

"Ah, ah, _ah_!" Admonition; a fingertip simply _slapped_ at it.

And it's a profound and brutal unfairness, isn't it, for that polarized sensuality? For the carnality in its supersaturated intensity; for the lust that is pain's elemental denial. It cannot be.

It is not a philosophical absolute. It is a simple inviolate truth.

It _must not_ be.

There is not the neurology.

There are not the soft sculpted mathematics to accommodate this thing.

"Ngyaaa! I- I really feel like I'm gonna come, Orchid- _nee_! I'm- I'm- I'm super-serious about it! I- I don't wanna pop on your face-"

"Oh, yes, you do, don't you?" Fingers laced around its heavy bulk; a long lingering _squeeze_ lavished on its plump base while the peak whispers with an ominous breath against my cheek. "Can't you taste the warmth-"

"Yeees!"

"Why wouldn't you? Isn't it... It just _Japanese_ to clamor for that? To adorn a woman's face with that nacreous thick cream? Right? Isn't our national pastime bukkake?" There's a quiver in the knees.

"Ngn... W-why'd you hafta say that-"

"Oh, have I maybe prised out a fetish from-"

"I _love_ it. I love it; love it love it love it. An'- an' I hate it, too, 'cause it's- it's so fuckin' nasty! I wanna do it with girls; I wanna see _girls_ jizz all over a girl's face. An' I want her to want it, too; not just look like she's gonna cry the whole time!" Wailing, warbling.

Lips have become rubbery, twisting, rippling, deformed; a tortured plea for grasp on anything like language inflames the brittle flesh behind the eyes and between the ears.

Masculine lusts in their metabolic disease.

Their _madness_.

"D-dammit, I wanna do it so badly! I wish I could; I wish I could; I wish I could be a one-girl jizz machine!" It's oh so adorable, ain't it?

To know the jaws' clench.

The ambition to control.

It is hopeless.

Impotent.

"I- I wanna come; I wanna come _so-hooo_ bad-"

"Well, that _is_ too bad, isn't it?" And a fingertip _slapped_ at the peak again; again; again. A stern purchase in that sumptuous flesh a bifurcated madness; the neurology in its better-living-through-chemistry plastic simulacrum and the simple _being_ clasped there, kneaded gnashed _devoured_ pulled deeper deeper deeper into the body's wet urgent hungers.

A shudder.

Swept up and down; up and down; again again again again and there is only a spasmodic clamoring, a craving for outlet.

"W-why- why do I feel like I'm really... Really gonna _come_? It's so weird; it's so fuckin' weird. W-when I'm- when I'm... Gya!" It isn't _explosive_ ; isn't that instant savor, indulged, in its shuddering convulsions.

Yuki- _tan_ 's eyes are awed, entranced; a gawping idiot enchantment with the spectacle.

"Wow. Wow. Yuki- _tan_ is just... I just _amazed_. S-so that's what it really looks like? This's what Mistress Orchid uses, too? 's so pretty. Yuki- _tan_ wishes she could use one sometime. 's so _niiiice_. Is _Yuri-himei_ gonna fuck Yuki- _tan_ 's soft sweet _wet_ throat-pussy?"

Psychosis.

Sexual psychosis.

"Ngn... P-please, please, please, _please_ , Orchid- _nee_. I'm gonna go insane. W-what _is_ it about this? It's not at all- at all like when I'm strokin' myself. I- I can... Can just kinda, y'know, _cool it off_. But it just- it feels like it's not a fire that can just- just be _dimmed_.

"It's just- it's a big pile of insanity. It's bigger and bigger and bigger; when you touch me, there's just _more_. I'm dying; I'm gonna go crazy. It's like- it's like you're just pouring liquid electricity in me. It needs to get _out_!

"I'm insane; I'm insane with this thing. I- I almost want you to take it out; I really _don't_ want you to take it out, Orchid- _nee_." How can it be resisted?

"Well, _aaalllll_ right. I guess... Ngn... Are you ready for _two_ , though, in your naughty little pussy, Yuri- _chi_?" Standing now.

It's something oh so fucking _simple_.

It is never without novelty.

You are simply not overawed with its immensity; it is the experience in flight, in soaring up up up. Ultimately, whatever the visceral awareness of the engines' thrum, the relentless strain rearing up through your ears, the incredulity at taking flight without wings, there is simply a wisdom of its mechanical certitude.

It _is_ , because it is.

Because it must be.

Because she is beautiful; because palms cradle luscious soft plump hips; because her ass strains _announces_ itself in its delectation, in its simple enormity, flaring in a vast clefted shelf that could probably accommodate a dessert tray.

It is lusciouser than any pastry.

"W-whaddaya mean, _two_ -"

"Exactly that. You wanted me to fuck you, right?" And there is a kiss, a kiss, a kiss.

 _Looming_.

"Maybe it's not as humongous as a _dildo_ in you, but, ah, it's still _**veeery**_ generous-"

"A-ah, uh, um..." And there is anxiety.

When the taut cinching lips are prodded now with its generous thick head.

"Ah... O-oh, oh, _fuck_ , you- you wanna put _two_ inside me, Orchid- _nee_?" And it is not revulsion.

It is not horror.

Only fear's lovely sumptuous shock.

"Uh- _huh_. It's... It's absolutely _delicious_ , you know. For you. For _me_. It's tighter than _tight_ ; it's to be filled absolutely. For there not to be a single _morsel_ , the tiniest furrow and twist, that's not just _crammed_ with lust." Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her.

Lips brushed on the nape of the neck like Madame Guillotine's fervor, already hot with royal blood.

"Ngn... I- I mean, y'know, I'm not exactly _jaaaded_ , b-b-but, uh... I guess I could try?" With a smile that would cast _shyness_ as a boisterous frenzy. "But, uh, r-right now-"

"Oh, _yes_. Just, well, _a breath_ , I guess."

Clutch.

Clasp.

Fingers bite into the sumptuous luscious skin.

Her body entrances.

And there is heat. In an instant, an instant, a sudden convulsive thrall in sound, in fury, in meat, in hunger, in bone and blood and...

And it is a universe in warmth.

Clutching.

Groping.

A sodden mist wreathes fiction that has _wrenched_ itself into reality with will alone; with science-faction in its unreal sublimes.

She is here.

 _I_ am here.

A stroke.

Deeper, deeper, deeper, while Yuri- _chi_ 's voice savors samples touches tastes kisses _devours_ pitches in warbling trilling undulation with serpentine grace in operatic delirium.

"O-oh-oh, oh, oh, oh, f-fuck, fuck, fuck, t-that's _more_ than just tight! Y-you're gonna break me!" Wailing.

Howling.

But there isn't the word _stop_.

"Should I stop-"

"D-dammit, don't stop. Don't stop. H-how far are you in me? I- I'm gonna go crazy; I'm gonna _die_ from all this. 's so fuckin' amazing. It feels so incredible." Tears quiver in the vast eyes in their heavily-lobed obsidian; the lips have melted into dribbling indigo wax, quaking and wet with spittle. "It feels so fuckin' incredible."

"Half-"

"A-all the way. J-just shove it in me; don't do it _slowly_. I wanna feel it." And so it is.

A quick lunge and it's more than _intense_.

It's to know perfection in symmetry; hers and mine and it is symmetry in parallel, in the perfected woman and the plastic man and it is... It is her flesh wreathing me.

Swallowing me.

Hips clamped against her ass' plump lush cleft.

"A-ah, ah, oh, _fuck_." It is not composure _lapsing_.

It is a cannon shell crunching through its dining room window.

It is to know the universe _melting_ with it; it is for Yuki- _tan_ 's eyes to blaze with a ravening crazed convulsive groping hunger; it is for her hands to know only anguish in their patient polite obedient stillness on knees pulsating with muscular frenzy animated _fueled_ with the craving that is a starving man's peering at neon-curtained all-you-can-eat.

"O-oh, oh, oh, _fuck_ , fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _**fuck**_ , Yuri- _chi_. You're incredible." Wet.

Hot.

Scalding.

 _Raw_.

Yes, yes, yes, with not even the tiniest the modestest the most menial affectation in separation, in distance. It is to know only her body in its sumptuous immediacies. Her skin scalding sodden allure. Her body.

Deeper than deep.

To dwell there; to lurk in those sacral waters and to frolic, to wallow, simply to _be_.

Lips clasped upon lips upon lips upon lips; coiling and circuitous and it is Ouroboros in its hungers.

Eat.

To be devoured, also.

"Ngn... It- I can't fucking _believe_ h-how, like, how _full_ I am, Orchid- _nee_. I- I want you to pump me; I just dunno if I'll fuckin' _survive_ it. There's- there's so much of your _cock_ in me. An'- an' my... I, like, I can't _describe_ it!" Dreamy; delirious.

Febrile.

A fever. Yes. Yes. This is the only word.

"You're feeling _both_ at once; it shouldn't be possible. It's a neurological insanity, isn't it?" It isn't a _pump_ ; slowly, slowly, slowly, an achingly patient stroke, _dragging_ it from her, serenaded with voices upraised.

Mine.

Hers.

A sticky sodden _squelch_.

"W-wah, ah, ah, oh, _fuck_ , I- I feel... 's so fuckin' _weird_. I'm coming; I'm _not_ coming! H-how's that work, anyway? It feels like I have two bodies right _there_." Her palms settling on her belly with trembling fingers; nerves twang like a chicken's sinews plucked and tugged and twisted. "Ngng... 's- 's so fuckin' good!

"I- I just came, like, nine times! R-right then; right there. I'm so fuckin' _full_ -"

"It seems like you _are_ a natural slut, huh, Yuri- _chi_?" A kiss; a kiss; once and again and again and it's to known the elemental perfection in fingers tucked under her chin's softness, lips tugged closer and closer and closer to mine.

A delirium in communion.

Tongues tumble out; oiled satin and silk.

"A-ahn... I- I always _knew_ I was, anyway. For girls. For girls. I'm a _huge_ fuckin' girl-slut. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. P-p-pump me. Pump me. I- I want you to do it- it as hard as you can without tearin' out my girlcock!"

And with what ease we reconcile ourselves with these mechanical exoticisms.

These bits of science-faction.

A long slow tormented warble from her lips; an ambition to celerity as persuasive as a quadriplegic in a fucking marathon sprint.

"W-wah, oh, oh, oh, _oh_ , that's- that's so fuckin' _hot_! I can hear it; I can _hear_ you pulling it outta my pussy!" Yes, yes, yes.

Kiss ruptured in its sticky clutching frenzy for those fleeting intervals.

To know her screams; to gorge yourself on _her_.

Her.

Her.

Spear her again.

Drag it from the flesh and now, now, now, it's something actually _possible_ ; not slackened; not twisted open. Only oh so deliciously reconciled with this novel reality.

With her body filled; with it _crammed_ with me.

With its own desire.

"Yuki- _tan_ wantsta do somethin', too! Don't- don't ignore Yuki- _tan_ 's throat-pussy. C'mon. C'mon. Don't you wanna _fuck_ Yukiko's mouth, Yuri- _himei_?" Ah, ah, ah, the simple _perfection_ in Yuki- _tan_.

In this moment not broken; no, no, no.

The geometries are warped.

Broken upon an endlessly protean porno-perfect axis.

A squelch into her.

Jaw tumbling open.

"A-ah, ah, _aaah_! Yeah, yeah, yeah. I- I wanna... I wanna try it; I wanna try it; I wanna feel Yukiko's mouth-"

"Then _do_ it. Fuck her throat. C'mon; c'mon. It's not exactly an intellectual trial. Even the most _basal_ mind can rut and pump. How the hell do you think humans have been _procreating_ since we clambered down from the trees?" Kiss, kiss, kiss.

Adore her.

Palms settle around her hips; there is nothing like gentleness now. Only a deliberate deft regularity; only her body like a willow captured in a hurricane in its convulsions, its shuddering heaving insanities, slathered slicked with sweat in vast effulgent smears.

"Ah! Ah! F-fuck, fuck, yeah, yeah, Orchid- _nee_ , I'm- I'm goin' fuckin' _crazy_! Holy shit; holy shit; holy _shit_." It is to savor the sainted sacrilege; the clutching compulsion for the obscene, for the _profane_.

Spear her.

Impale her.

 _Ripping_ into the flesh; her body's lusts announce themselves in their spurting fulsome effusion; it is to know fountaining abundance.

Excess.

All is excess.

Inside her.

Inside her.

And...

"C-c'mere, c'mere, Yukiko! Yukiko; yeah, yeah, yeah, fuck, _yeah_. I- I wanna pump your mouth; I wanna come in your mouth. I wanna fill all your naughty nasty holes with jizz. C'mon. C'mon. I feel like there's- there's a million _gallons_ in me!" And anything like patience, like _restraint_ , has been not merely abandoned but consigned to distant meaningless _nothing_.

It is something that happens to other people; something that would still not wish upon even the wickedest foe.

Fingers twist into hair in its graceful auburn ringlets; the lips cannot deny and cannot embrace but only _swallow_.

A long huge heaving _lunge_.

Once.

Once.

Only _once_ ; there is stillness.

A groan; a growl; deep and guttural and mad.

"O-oh, oh, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_! It's so fuckin' hot; so fuckin' hot. I- I can't take it anymore! Ah, ahn... Ngn... 's... This's what it feels like for a boy to be in a girl's mouth?" A boy.

Perhaps even that rarefied and elusive thing called a man.

Shivering.

"I'm gonna _come_! F-from there. From there-"

"Pump her _throat_." And there is only a command; there can only be the simple will to lavish Yuri- _chi_ with that sainted wisdom, with the allure in expertise.

Palm slapping at the fingers that've clutched tangled in Yuki- _tan_ 's hair, the plump luscious ringlets clamoring for more, more, more.

Forever adorned in an urgent neon frenzy with our culture's most precious virtue.

Effusion.

Excess.

 _Drag_ her closer, closer, closer.

The ears are lavished with eddying squelching sputtering wet hot madness rearing up from the throat; it is for gelatin to be plumbed with a jackhammer.

Once.

And again.

And there is a plea for a mirror's cold quicksilver clarity to appreciate Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes, her _face_ in its fullest candor.

Pull her closer, and closer, and closer, also.

All for her Tyrant.

For her Empress.

"Aaaah! Aaah! It's- it's so fucking hot!" With incredulous quivering eyes; with lips whose purchase on simple language is as tenuous as a politician's command of economics. "It's so hot; it's- I'm _in_ there. Her- her _neck_ 's just..."

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Distending with it.

Overfed.

Overstuffed.

 _Bloating_ with cock.

"I- I'm gonna come! I'm really gonna come! I- I wanna fuck her throat-"

"Do it. Do it. Do it." Command; compel.

Hips _slapped_ against her ass, and tugged away again. A graceful quick ripple and pull and it is symmetry in its most sumptuous guise.

Torn with spittle's distending thick ribbons from Yuki- _tan_ 's adoring admiring throat, and plunged back again.

And again.

And again.

Once.

And twice.

And-

"A-ah, ah, it's- it's _coming_! I- I know it is! I know it is! I- I wanna paint Yukiko's face, b-but I can't _mooove_! I wanna do it so deep!" And so it will be.

The lunges become pathetic fitful little strokes with flesh wet and slapping against Yuki- _tan_ 's chin in its lovely sodden geometries.

Spittle drools down in heavy mucilaginous clots and thick quivering wads and...

And it's _here_.

Clenching.

Cinching.

 _Crushing_ around me.

There is a will to patience, to discipline, to lavish _her_ with the unselfish selfishness in its clarified delirium and it is a triumph of the will in its purest guise _not_ to liberate with hammering violent madness every. Fucking. _Drop_ in this fleeting instant.

Yes.

Yes.

"Aaaah! Yeah, yeah, _yeah_! I- I'm coming! Drink every fucking _drop_!" It is not menace; a sob cannot menace; a _warble_ cannot daunt. "I'm coming! It's- it's all..."

And it is.

Tasted in its effusion.

 _Savored_ in its exotic creamy aroma; thick clotted wads burbling up up up and plunging down down down, distending Yuki- _tan_ 's throat in its sunset-on-desert-dunes grace; a few creamy motes limn coiling serpentine slithers from her nostrils.

A cough, ragged, racking, and still, still, obdurate in its convictions; in fingers clamped with an adoring clutching exuberance on stockinged thighs.

"Ngn... It's... It's... It feels so fucking _good_. Oh, oh, oh, _this's_ what it feels like to come in a girl's mouth! I- I wanna- I wanna fuck her; I wanna fuck her so so so much! I felt it _come_ out of me; a-all the...

"The muscles and the pumping and it's not real and it _is_ real." Yuri- _chi_ 's voice is melody in trembling trilling madness; her eyes are more eloquent than any language. "O-oh, shit, it's so fucking amazing. It's so fucking incredible.

"I- I wanna fuck her; I wanna fuck her so _much_!"

"Even with her pussy _sopping_ with her lover's cum-"

"That..." And there is only a quiver.

Only knees convulsive with a seismic shudder.

"Ah, it's just... Like, that's- that's one'a my fantasies, y'know? Um, it's..."

"W-wow, Yuri- _himei_ came _**sooo**_ much in Yukiko's throat. In her mouth-pussy; down in her belly. I'm so _full_ ; from everywhere. In _every_ hole now." With Yukiko's fine slim hands still cradling stockinged thighs. "'s so _delicious_ ; it tastes like icing, you know?" Her tongue entrances in its quick flitting fuchsia stripe, swept over the cum's long nacreous tendrils.

Brushed through one; through another.

"Ngn... It's just like Mistress Orchid's cum. Mistress Orchid an' Yuri- _himei_ must have come from the same branch." Cooing; quivering. "Fuck Yukiko if you'd like; fuck her _aaanywhere_. You wanna feel Yukiko's sloppy seconds, right?

"Or maybe eighths? Her pussy and ass are _filled_ with her lover's cum; it's so so so _so_ sweet. Wouldn't Yuri- _himei_ loo-hooove it?" Beseeching; melodious.

"Ngn... C-can I, Orchid- _nee_? O- or, um, is that too much-"

"Oh, it would be fine. But you're not just going to drag out the plug. No, no, _no_. There's decorum, you know. Isn't there, Yuki- _tan_?" How can you not tease; how can you not _torment_?

How can you not indulge yourself with another quick urgent pump; with a hand falling down down down to lace around Yuri- _chi_?

"K- _kya_!" Yes. Yes. An authentic _kya_. Unpretentious; unrehearsed. Sensual and sexual frenzy. Her head thrown back; shuddering coruscating supersensitivity. "O-oh, oh, oh, that's... That feels so _amazing_!" Once.

And again.

And again.

Quickening; quickening; hastening.

"A-ah, ah, ah, how good does it feel to fuck a girl, Orchid- _nee_?" With rippling lips and her body simply _convulsive_ , lean muscle intuited through the sleek tight softness.

"Ngn... It's... Ah... Ah, oh, oh, _fuck_ , it's incredible-"

"Let's fuck her together; her- her pussy together. I mean, y'know, it- it feels so _great_ in me, right? Won't it be even _tighter_ with both of us? Our- our huge girlcocks?" Yes.

Yes.

"Yes! Yes!" With the supremest zeal, martial clopping clomping irresistible, adorning Yuki- _tan_ 's slutty painted face, still swept with cum's creamy pointillist vestiges. "Fuck Yuki- _tan_ 's pussy together; do it, do it, do it! Yes, yes, yes!" Exuberance.

Exhilaration.

Madness.

"Impale Yuki- _tan_ ; _tear her in **half**_!" Imploring.

Clamoring.

"C'mon; c'mon. Yuki- _tan_ is your whore, your hole-"

"A remarkably fucking _voluble_ one, I think. Since when are _you_ so brazen, Yuki- _tan_?" And it's...

It's to know the sublimity in flesh.

In human warmth.

The grace in Yuri- _chi_ 's spine; its sumptuous twisting sinuous arch.

"A-ah, ah, I'm coming again! Again! Again! Y-you're makin' me come so fucking _hard_ , Orchid- _nee_! I- I wanna do it; I wanna just- just _split her in half_ -"

"Ngn... Maybe, _maaaybe_."

"Her pussy; not her ass. I wannit to be her pussy. I- I've never seen anything like that outta porno; I wanna do it. I only know porno manga an' stuff. C'mon; c'mon; c'mon." It's a brat's exhortation.

A plea.

A mewl and a whimper and refusal would be heretical, wouldn't it?

"Well, _fine_ , Yuri- _chi_ -"

"B-but, um, I... I want you to... Ah, ah, ah, I dunno what to do! I want you to come inside me; I want you to cream Yukiko! I- I just... Can't- can we do it a lot?" It's glimpsing the carnal buffet in its lavish scope, its vast constellation of courses, its succulent flesh and its desserts rich and treacly and its every gradation and imploring the fates that there _not_ be a constraint, a boundary, anything that will shackle this to the temporal.

It must be imperishable; you must be enthroned in the excess as surely as the exalted Pantheon.

"Please, please, _please_ -"

"Of course, Yuri- _chi_. I... I can't refuse you, you know. You're such an _irresistible_ little brat." There can really be no equivocation, can there?

"T-then, um, will you cream Yukiko? Please, please, _please_? I- I just-"

"Why can't _you_?"

"I wanna save _all_ of my stuff for her pussy; I wanna watch, um, I mean... It's not real, right?" There's a dazed glazed sense of equivocation in it.

What _is_ real?

Is there reality in the programmatic neurology that announces its wisdom through the flesh that isn't?

Would there be deeper reality in a man's authentic chemistry?

"Ngn... W-what _is_ reality, exactly," with voice lapsing, _wilting_ , knowing those implacable urgent commands rearing up, higher, higher, hotter, hotter, ineluctably more urgent, "Yuri- _chi_? Your cock-"

"J-just, y'know, I mean... I can't- can't get pregnant, right?"

"Ah, no-"

"But- but does it taste good? I mean, y'know, is it bitter like a guy's stuff-"

"Uh, uh, _uh_." Yuki- _tan_ is so obliging, ain't she? "It's _delicious_ ; nothing like a guy's rotten cum."

"But your lover's?" And how can there not forever be this command, this _clamoring_ for a truth more elusive than the fucking Kennedy Assassination?

"Ngn... Yuki- _tan_ has been sworn. To. Secrecy. Cross my big big _big_ tits an' hope to... Um, die a big death?" Fingers swept over the plump effusion flaring up through her qipao.

"You and Haibara. For fuck's sake. And... Ah, ah, oh, oh, I'm gonna come so soon-"

"Cream her; cream her; cream her. Please, please, _please_! I- I mean, we can't just put out an _infinite_ amount of our stuff, right? D-don't you hafta refill it or something?" Yes, yes, yes.

Conveniently.

And still, still, there is the fundamental _misery_ in even the most fleeting lapse.

The tiniest interval of phallic denial.

"Yes, yes-"

"T-then I don't wanna waste a drop of mine!" What sumptuous selfishness.

"How is it _wasting_ it to adorn her so beautifully? Aren't you clamoring to make her up, Yuri- _chi_?"

"I- I wanna pump it all _in_ her! I wanna give- give her sloppy ninetieths." Cooing and giggling and mewling, also. "I wanna do _eeeverything_ -"

"You _really_ are straining my patience, aren't you? But I can't refuse you-"

"I- I wanna stroke _you_. And, um, can... Can I put it in _you_?" When the hips exercise their own urgent heaving temerity; when flesh strains and twists and distends and lurches; when you are _dragged_ from those paradisaical places.

"W-what-"

"I- I wanna try. Please, please, _please_. Let me. Let me. I- you're so beautiful, Orchid- _nee_. I wanna try it; I wanna... I wanna feel it so _perfectly_ in you-"

"Don't _come_ in me."

"D-duh. I think? I want you to be my first like this. Please, please, _please_ , _**pleeease**_." Childish.

Demented.

A saw-toothed frenzy and there is simply no ambition of refusal, is there?

"Oh, all _right_ -"

"Yay!" It's not a patient laconic grace; it is to know the heels' quick rap and rustle and her fingers' scalding sweat-sodden brush on hips, on my ass.

The skirt has vanished; there is only a sumptuous sartorial perversion in the jacket and blouse that declaim a decadence in their sainted probity.

Her surrogate flesh sodden and slathered with thick deepthroat spit and the cum in its sticky fictions brushed once, twice, again and again and again.

"It's, um, it's..." To know the anxiety in it; the awkward ungainly jabs.

Once.

Twice.

"I- it's... It's _really_ , _**really**_ fucking hard!" A giggle; a _squeak_.

A simple lurching gawping breathless _thrall_ the instant her fingers capture a surer purchase on the elusive figments; when her hand settles there.

Not twisted; no, no.

It's to indulge her.

A languorous and achingly elegant bow; deeper, deeper, deeper, palms cradling your knees, clasped in taut shimmering black fabric.

Ass brandished with a buoyant zeal.

A tremor.

Her craving something palpable now.

Planted against me.

An awareness of lips cloven, splayed, a thick greasy desire drooling down down down; sticky and wet and scalding on my left thigh.

"A-ah, and, it's, um..."

Perfection. A sublimity. This is the word; heels _ground_ into the carpeting; thighs splayed. It is to know her touch, the urgent lunging frenzy in her hips' wet sumptuous slap stained with a prayer that declaims itself in the deep heavy guttural _snarl_ rearing up from the throat.

 _Finally!_

Yes.

 _Finally, finally, finally!_

Heaving; convulsive. A wisdom of waters not dammed but only _invaded_ ; it is the fucking Panama Canal accommodating a Soviet monster, a nuclear-fueled diablerie whose great flesh twists and wrenches and tears and simply _breaks_.

Eyes immense and lashes simply settling now with a soft velvet beat over cheeks that flare carnation, livid and hot and steeping in sweat, without shame, and without equivocation. There is no compunction. It is the Tyrant's simple self-assurance. It is poise while her hands convulse, while there is only a relentless vaulting tremor flaring up through every inch.

It is there; still and tranquil and plastic, and it is not merely autosuggestion that it must be otherwise. It is not simply animated with belief's transcendental opium, with the junk-stained delirium in the _will_ that it should be otherwise. Hot; hot; hot. Scalding and slathered with Yuki- _tan_ 's lips, her throat's gelid spittle, the play-pretend lust's authenticity in its smearing carnalities.

And a gurgle.

A groan.

Falling deeper, deeper, deeper, and finally, finally, ah, ah

" _Ah_! F-fuck, fuck, _**fuck**_." To know the snarling violence pluming from the lips. "O-oh, _fuck_ , Yuri- _chi_ , that's... That's _incredible_! Yeah. Yeah! Yeah!" Not a scream; not a squall; not a screech. Only dipping down, down, down.

A relentless southern maunder; the dark-eyed cotillion belle's enchantment, tits heavy marshmallow grace flaring up through the bustier's cradling tension, a tight-laced psychosis that is nothing that could be called straitlaced. There is only hunger; there is the spine's bow, a dancer's unpretentious elegance, head thrown back in a shuddering breathless instant while flesh communes with flesh, while neurology in its spattering wet coruscating madness whispers its honeyed wisdoms through the body's every reach.

While this novel constellation of meat and bone and blood has become the universe's core; while there is absolutely nothing _but_ this. An urgent shivering insanity from between your thighs; a strange untroubled juxtaposition in a perfect binary, in the cloistered grace that offers itself in its endless unknowable darkness to an invader who will know nothing but merely its geometries, a blind woman groping at a cavern's soft wet walls.

A convulsion. The universe throbs and blazes; the walls have not merely begun to melt but are only a junk-sick insanity, slopping with sweat and smeared with a sunset that should not be with the time's passage declaimed in a great meaningless blue marble's wheeling waltz with a greater tangerine effulgence.

She is here; I am here; we are all here. We die. We fall, fall, fall, and rear up again.

"Nya! Mistress Orchid an' Yuri- _himei_ are so beautiful like that; Mistress Orchid an' Yuri- _himei_ look so- so gorgeous. So strange. A schoolgirl and a _not-schoolgirl_. Yuki- _tan_ just can't _believe_ that Mistress Orchid isn't a schoolgirl; she's so pretty.

"She looks so _young_ in her costume. Ah. Ahn! Yuki- _tan_ wantsta touch herself. Please, please, please, let Yuki- _tan_ pet her lil' kitty." Crazed and shuddering and not merely knelt but genuflecting with theological frenzy.

With veneration.

Eyes huge and trembling and lips taut and there's something... Wanting.

"W-where the hell are your glasses, you filthy fucking slut? Didn't I order you to wear your fuckin' glasses, Yuki- _tahya_!" Explosive.

This is the word; in an instant, it is now a New Mexico desert, and a sun crests the horizon at five-thirty in the morning, and it is not with time's passage but a pocket inferno, but a madness that can be coaxed into being with a whim named Trinity.

I Am Become Death.

I Am Become Lust.

We are conjoined; our fingers lace together; we pull and tug and twist and _break_ and all ultimately will be battered and buffeted into nothing with a hurricane conjured in a breath.

The word _orgasm_ simply fails in its mechanical vagaries.

Its clinical absolutes.

It is delectable in its imprecisions, in its imperfections that could only be a deeper perfection, shivering and with knees wilting and a credulity-defying _brilliance_ flaring behind the eyes and lunging out and up and down and back and _filling_ the body.

"Y-you're so t-t-tight, Orchid- _nee_!" And there is disbelief, also, with her voice.

"'cause you're making me _come_ like I can't fuckin' believe; do it harder; do it harder; do it harder! Don't you _dare_ fucking stop!" It isn't the blue-eyed liar's selfishness.

It is not a boyfriend's banal slopping flesh.

The fallibility in meat.

It is not a groveling girlfriend's simple need to gorge herself on selfish self-flagellation in the pageantry and spectacle in tyranny's dimensions.

Lust.

Craving.

A lunging _slap_ against my ass.

"A-ah, ah, ah, fuck! Fuck! It- it's so fucking _incredible_! I'm inside you; I'm inside you; I'm inside you an'- an'- an'... An' I can't believe it. I'm fucking you an' I'm fucking you w-with your cock's root an' all of this feels so _crazy_." But there is a will only to crane, to twist, not merely to _offer_ your lips but to plead, to implore.

Kiss her; kiss her; kiss her. Dewy, lavish, _succulent_. To know the plum gloss' luster and its faint treacly flavor and aroma creasing the senses and eclipsing anything and everything is _this_ ; is the collision of rubber and rubber and the neurology in its strange alchemical root, also.

Tremble.

"You _are_ fucking me; you are; you are. Isn't it _incredible_ , Yuri- _chi_? D'ya see why I love this so much? Why boy-meat is just... Just so fucking _stupid_? Why their lives are nothing but _this_? J-just their flesh, begging for more-"

"I love my pussy even more, though. When y'pump me. But I love this so much, too! I-"

"Didn't you want me to paint her? I... I'm going crazy, you know, Yuri- _chi_. I- I'm going... You really can when it's just _too_ fucking much; you can feel them just _converge_."

"I- I really made'ya come that hard?" Is it incredulity?

"Don't be such a _cherry_."

"W-well, _sorry_. F-f- _fuck_!" Anything like adorable play-pretend indignation has simply melted down into sexual psychosis; has boiled up in a shrill trilling chirrup. "Ooooh! Oooh! I- I wanna come inside you-"

"Uh- _uh_ - _ **uh**_. Not _yet_ , anyway. I- I am _not_ going to be so cosseting with you. You've already come _once_ -"

"I wanna do it again. You're so hot; so _tight_." Closer, closer, closer. Wriggling, writhing, hips slapping and spattering against my ass. "Ngn... I wanna cream you; I wanna pour it _all_ in your pussy. Sex feels so fucking _incredible_ -"

"Not _yet_." You must be firm.

Muscle _clenches_ ; crunches.

"W-wah!"

"I asked you a question. Wouldn't you _love_ to see how, ah, _spectacular_ a bespectacled beauty is-"

"C-come all over her glasses?" And there we are. It is fetishery's demented geometry captured.

"You love that, don't you-"

"It's- it's one'a my favorite things. One- one of my favorite movies-"

"You're such a fucking _degenerate_ , you know, Yuri- _chi_? Maybe I should punish your slutty ass with something a little crueler than just that-"

"D-d-don't! Don't! Don't!" And there is stillness' inexpressible wickedness; there is a cruelty that clutches and _snaps_ around her. "W-wah! Y-you're... Like, how can your muscles there be so strong? It feels like you're gonna rip my cock outta my pussy-"

"And I _could_." Still, still, still. "You'll just need to suffer. Order her to wear her glasses. You need to learn a _bit_ of discipline." And there is a simple bliss in this, also. "Won't you? Don't you love this?

"I could _feel_ how deeply you did."

"W-well, like, y'know, yeah, but-"

"But _what_?" There is a will to protest.

Again, again, to fasten your fingers, your soul, around that conviction that _You're Not One of Those People_.

"I- I just, y'know, I dunno if this... This's exactly _me_ -"

"It feels like you." And so she must be enticed.

Coaxed.

Hips scribing a slow languorous roll around the flesh.

"W-wah!" Madness. All is madness. "W-what the hell'd you just do?"

"I _do_ love to dance. Don't you?" Again, again, again, wheeling, twisting, spine tracing a delectable arch.

And again.

"Ahn... Ah... Y-you're gonna make me _come_ -"

"If you come, _you're_ done with this for the day. I'll just need to punish _you_ 'til we're alone together." Again, again, a kiss. Tongues coil together; the universe is more sodden than a fucking monsoon.

"Ah, ahn, d-don't- don't punish me-"

"Then _force_ her."

"You- you should, like, uh..." With eyes a half-inch from imploding back into whatever lurks between the ears. "Oh, oh, _fuck_ , it's so tight an' wet an' _hot_ inside you, Orchid- _nee_ -"

"Ah, Yuri- _chi_?"

"R-right. Right. Right. You should seriously wear your glasses, slut." Yuri- _chi_ 's command's as persuasive an act of abuse as Mister Rogers clutching a bull whip.

Oh, well.

"Ngn... Yukiko would be _happy_ to wear her glasses." And they _are_ there; a clutch plucked from beside the table, and there is an achingly graceful sense of pageantry in it. Slipped from the clutch in its heavy creamy leather; tucked onto her nose's fine bridge. "See? It's so lovely, right? Yukiko _loves_ her glasses, Yuri- _himei_ ; Yukiko feels _aallll_ pretty with them."

Adorable; oh so lovely.

Enchanting.

"Ngn... I _love_ girls with glasses; they're so fucking _incredible_. It's- it's the movie I can't stop watching. Some sexy milfy kinda chick getting creamed until her glasses are just totally, like, _smeared_ with jizz." And there is a will to be closer, closer, closer.

A _strain_ in the hips ground against my ass.

"I- I wanna fuck you; I wanna keep fucking you, Orchid- _nee_. Please, please, _please_ -"

"If you can _really_ persuade me. Maaaaybe-"

"Pweaaase!" It's something absolutely demented; it's a childish gurgling exhortation; it's something that peals up from Yuki- _tan_ 's lips, also, in a succulent quailing symmetry.

"Oh, please, please, _please_ , mess up Yuki- _tan_ , Mistress Orchid! Make her all wet an' filthy; fuck her up; _cream_ her. Please, please, please, please, _please_! Yuki- _tan_ wants a facial-"

"It'll be more than just a fucking _facial_." With a stern conviction; with surrender, also, to their collective pleas. "It'll be an _ocean_."

"Then you should let Yuki- _tan_ have a dip." With Yuki- _tan_ 's fingers in lovely long elegance simply _daggering_ into those obscene udder-tits, silk dimpling and creased and furrowed and drawn taut in elegant bits of sartorial symmetry. "Please, please, _please_ , fuck up Yuki- _tan_. She's your whore; treat her like one. Please, please, _please_ , Mistress Orchid. She wants it. She _needs_ it. C'mon. C'mon. C'mon! Yuki- _tan_ is the- the hugest slut in the fucking world!

"Wouldn't it be a waste _not_ to smear her with your cum?"

It's compelling reasoning.

It's irresistible. It's to know the simple idiot _compulsion_ rearing up through the surrogate flesh; the entrapment in the masculine enchantment that transcends mere delusion now. Yes, yes, yes.

"Fine. Fine! Both of you. You're both so fucking _demented_. And, ah, Yuri- _chi_ , I think that _you_ should taste the bliss in your bukkake fantasy, too.

"When you're close, you should just... _Pull_ out-"

"N-n-no. I- I really, really, _really_ wanna come inside you-"

"Leave _something_ for tonight, won't you?" With a smile that _mischievous_ doesn't quite capture. "You're maybe not my slave, but _I_ am the senior Mistress, aren't I, Yuri- _chi_?"

"Ngn... It's not fair-"

"Maybe you should just learn _self-denial_." Fingers cinched around the root; a quality like a fine flute with the trilling undulating pitches every faint little squeeze and clench and clasp yields.

"W-wah, oh, oh, _fuck_ , 's just- I- I could come from that-"

"But you're _not_." Dragged from me now, quick and decisive and there's woe in the eyes, immense and trembling and no longer a limpid black clarity but lignite insanity.

"Ah, ah, oh, oh, oh, it- it _hurts_. It feels so fucking weird. W-weren't... Didn't you want me to stroke you, Orchid- _nee_?" Again, again, a wheedling plea for this bliss.

"Oh, you are. We'll savor a bit of mutual masturbation-"

"I wanna come!" It's something deliciously childish, ain't it?

"You're just so _cute_. You'll love it. Come on; come on. Which one of us can claim the _most_ experience?"

"I love porno?" It's guileless, idiotic. It's an invitation to a kiss; a plea for her lips, and for mine, and for a collision, a communion, a confluence. Slowly, slowly, the waltz perseveres, twists and cranes and wheels and undulates and there's a delectation in this.

Fingers laced with hers; bodies ground together.

A dazzling electrifying _kiss_ in the surrogate flesh brushed upon flesh.

"A-ah, oh, oh, _fuck_." Hands stitching between us; a _tug_ , once, once, oh so slowly, wound around her. "Oh, oh, Orchid- _nee_ , that- that feels so fuckin' amazing. It's just... You're..." Her eyes are huger than huge; universes melt in their multiplicity into the anthracite psychosis. "O-oh, oh, d-dammit-"

"And there's _this_ , of course." For flesh to be ground against flesh; for fingers to fasten them together, to fetter them into delicious confluence, flank against flank.

Palms and fingers define sumptuous carnal geometries.

A pull.

A stroke.

A tug.

"O-oh, oh, I- I'm... I'm gonna come-"

"No, you're not. Don't even _imagine_ wasting all of that delectable juice within you. It's _very_ time-consuming to replace, you know." It is a point of subjectivity; it is forever a point of proportion.

Five seconds is unaffordable when you're peering at the figures in their effulgent neon, plunging down down down from three, two, one, when there's only the irresistible annihilation in nuclear holocaust, when you will be devoured in the inferno flaring up into its own great levitating haze, a mushroom cloud that will curtain the sky, will blacken the sun, will conjure obsidian rain and onyx snow.

And there can be no patience with _this_.

"H-how much does it have? I mean, they don't look that _huge_ -"

"It's called _pressure_ , you know." Kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her. "And it's _magic_ ; or something, anyway." How can you not tease and torment? "And are _you_ ready, little Yuki- _tan_?"

"Yuki- _tan_ is _**aaalways**_ ready to be all pretty; to be made-up." What perfection she is in her genuflecting pleas. In that sainted bukkake poise. "How does Mistress Orchid want her cum-canvas to be? Do you want Yuki- _tan_ to open her mouth-"

"Don't waste a single fucking _drop_ on your slutty mouth. We'll _definitely_ be painting you. Too bad that you can't just open your sleazy qipao and brandish those huge pillowy tits without ruining the _whole_ ensemble." Rueful; oh so woeful.

"Yuki- _tan_ can." It's...

Incredible.

A tug.

A tendril jerked and there's only a spectacle in sartorial magic; in her tits simply conjured into being in their buoyant boisterous allure, in the nipples' thick silver-dollar elegances, in the areolae rich and soft and silken and puckering, a faintly deeper hue than the flesh. The hunger; the _plea_ for a touch.

Trembling; a breathless shudder rearing up through every _inch_. Beseeching fingers, lips, tongues; clamoring for the simple indulgence in _this_. In even the eyes' raking hot caresses.

"Ah, ah, Yuki- _tan_ is just... Just being _eaten alive_ with Mistress Orchid's and Yuri- _himei_ 's eyes; she feels so _slutty_." The chest carved open; the qipao still brandishing its lovely elegances. She's a carnal perfection, isn't she?

Legs strain, clasped in tight gauzy fabrics; voluptuous hips are not merely cradled but only _painted_ in the silk's cinching lush grace, a cool pallor against sunset convolutions.

And there is a plea in the eyes captured in the fine fragile frames, the vast twinkling lenses.

"C'mon. C'mon. C'mon. Paint Yuki- _tan_ ; she's your slut-canvas. She's your cum-canvas. Paint her; paint her; _paint_ her!" Palms _crack_ now sodden with sweat at the tits in their upturned luscious _heaving_ teardrop allure, in their fundamental _massiveness_.

An awe with the bulk, the softness, the plumpness. The pertness, also, firm and immaculate in their sculpted grace.

They are a tribute not to plastic-fantastic affectations but only the surgeon's knife's caress, gingerly numbing time's passage.

"Fuck Yuki- _tan_ ; c'mon, c'mon. Yuri- _himei_ should face-fuck Yuki- _tan_ 'til she almost can't _breathe_. Isn't that Yuri- _himei_ 's fantasy? Doesn't she want to fuck, to humiliate, to degrade, to _stain_ Yukiko?

"Yukiko would _love_ it. C'mon; c'mon. _Paint_ her! Smear her! Degrade her! Defile her!" Slapping, pummeling, pounding. Crazed trembling fingers jerk and tug and pull and nipples are twisted and distended and...

And it's something irresistible.

"Yuki- _tan_ wantsta touch herself! Please, please, _**please**_ , let Yuki- _tan_ stroke her nasty cum-dripping pussy! Please, please, please, please, _please_ , Mistress Orchid. Yuki- _tan_ 'll do anything-"

"She's _already_ doing anything."

"Something even _more_." Imploring.

Exhorting.

It isn't that she's _moments_ from some grandiose groveling kowtowing; she simply _is_. Doubled over with long slender bare arms outstretched, palms clapped at the carpeting.

Once.

Again.

"Oh, all _right_." How can the sigh not rear up in a hot gust; how can the lips not caress these words with a boisterous play-pretend opprobrium? "You really are desperately fuckin' pathetic, aren't you, you cock-hole? That's _all_ you are; you really _are_ nothing but a cum-receptacle-"

"Uh- _huh_. Yuki- _tan_ is so so so _**so**_ happy ta be Mistress Orchid's an' Yuri- _himei_ 's jizz-receptacle. C'mon. C'mon. Pour _all_ you have all over her. She'd be so happy!" Fingers tremble with quivering tormented expectation on fine slender knees. "C'mon; let her show Mistress an' Yuri- _himei_ _just_ how happy she is with her bare nasty pussy.

"Yuki- _tan_ didn't even wash it; there's probably still a _lot_ of cum there just smeared all over the lips. They're so pretty, aren't they?"

"Oh, they are." It isn't fair and just and equitable to _reject_ reality; not when it's altogether more gratifying to steep yourself in it. "Pull your dress' hem up, then. Like you'd even really need to bother. They were just _leering_ at you, weren't they, on the train?"

"Ngn... Yuki- _tan_ has a confession to make." The smile pleading, pathetic, _ingratiating_.

A courtier whose pleas are for mercy, for forgiveness, even while the irreplaceable china's tinkling ruination has yet to still in your ears.

"Oh, _what_ did you do, Yuki- _tan_? Mistress _told_ you, _**ordered**_ you, to take public transportation, didn't she? You pathetic, _**lazy**_ fucking whore-"

"It wasn't that! Mistress, it _really_ wasn't that!" With a squeal; with a screech; with a hand outstretched, _clapped_ with a quick decisive violence on her cheek.

With scarlet scrawling through every inch.

With fingers _spearing_ through her knees; with a tremor rearing up through her spine's sumptuous alluring arch.

Carnality declaimed in every quirk and twist and convolution.

Another slap; another; another; another.

Relentless. Pummeling. Once and again and again and it's to behold with only Yuri- _chi_ 's sense of awe, of _novelty_ , the eyes glazed and trembling, her tongue lolling from pale frosted lips.

"Ngn... Nya... It- it's just... Yuki- _tan_ _**couldn't**_ an' still hope ta be on time-"

"You lazy fucking _cunt_. You _**couldn't**_ , or you were just ashamed-"

"Yuki- _tan_ can't think about being anything but ashamed. She's filthy; she's depraved; she's fucking _diseased_. She's so happy to be for Mistress Orchid. She is she is she _ii-hiiiisss_. It's not that. It's not that. Mistress Orchid wanted her to be _all_ full of jizz, right?

"It took time! Yuki- _tan_ needed- needed to think about what would betray Mistress _less_ , an'- an' she thought it... It would be okay, um, just _once_ , if she took a taxi-"

"You _whore_."

"She showed her pussy off to the driver." There's a heaving _burgundy_ bubbling up through her dusky cheeks.

Eyes not averted with coquettish elegance but only with a simple pathetic catechism.

More.

More.

More.

A shameless pride in its effusion.

"Ngn... It was so nice. She was _really_ amazed, too. She looked like she just wanted to _fuck_ Yuki- _tan_ right there."

"But?"

"But Yuki- _tan_ had an appointment." With index finger upraised; an admonishing _adult_ now. "She had an appointment with Mistress Orchid an' Yuri- _himei_."

"What _did_ you do, you useless stupid petulant middle-aged cunt?" And there is only a jaw craning open further, further, further.

Awe adorning Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes.

Yuki- _tan_ 's is a simple unpretentious quiescence.

"Ngn... Yuki- _tan_ just pulled up her qipao an' said, _Look at me_. Look at me. Look at my pussy."

"Well?"

"Like _this_." Craning back; less a lean and more simply the universe settling _around_ her in the twist and quirk and convolution in the long long shapely legs, their elemental geometric perfection.

Roundness where there must be roundness.

Angularity where it should be tasted, also.

And it's delirium, an endlessly rejuvenated allure in the skin, in the lips thick and dark and cloven now with the plug's brutal coarse shapes.

A squared base.

A sinuousness intuited _spearing_ through her.

"W-wow. Whoa. Whoa. O-oh, oh, this's just... Porno just feels like- like _nothing_. Not even instant ramen; it feels like licking a _picture_. I get it now. Whoa. Holy _crap_." With Yuri- _chi_ 's senseless babble pouring into a hand tumbling down now. "I- I wanna touch it.

"I wanna stroke myself. Does it feel that good to jerk off on a girl? 'cause- 'cause it looks like it really would feel _amazing_."

"Uh-uh- _uh_." A _slap_.

Knuckles cracked upon knuckles.

"I said it'd be _mutual_ masturbation; not you touching yourself. I'll ruin you for any technique but mine, you know, Yuri- _chi_." Awe ruptured with a kiss.

"Ngn... Is Mistress Orchid ready to paint her whore now? 'cause her _whore_ is sure ready to get _splashed_ -"

"You _always_ are. I'd be amazed if you didn't just splay open your thighs in a restaurant and ask everyone to just _eat_."

"Yuki- _tan_ would if Mistress even _suggested_ it. Yuki- _tan_ would fuck the whole SDF if Mistress really wanted it. She'd lie down or just lie back and open up her thighs and say, _Please_. She'd do it however you want.

"With a double-peace, even." It's idiocy; it's cliché.

It's still irresistible, that garrulous gyaru flourish, fingers upraised in symmetry that could only whisper something lovelier still.

"Hasn't _someone_ been entertaining theatrical fantasies." Murmuring now, shoulder brushed against Yuri- _chi_ 's with a languid ease. "C'mon. C'mon. Let me spoil you, Yuri- _chi_." And there is no argument now.

There can _be_ none.

It is a firing squad; she is a sublime imploring quarry in her jubilant algolagnia. Fingers and fingers; hands and hands. Sapphic poetry recited in a fleeting brush, in the knuckles' electrifying stroke, but they must slip apart, must fall down, down, down.

Twisted around her; she around _me_.

"A-ah... Ahn... Oh, your hands feel so _amazing_ , Orchid- _nee_. Really; really; really. They're incredible. Y-your hands are so nice. They're so beautiful; they're soft an' hard and... And..." There is a shudder; a shiver.

A pump. Lunging and lurching with the neophyte's simple awe in its urgency, in its novelty. There is no perspective; there can ultimately be none.

There is no elegant vantage when there has been only a single step.

There is not a mountain surmounted; there is not even a hillock; there is not even a fucking _pebble_ conquered. It is only a path paved in the hungering visceral biologic.

It is her body.

It is mine.

"Ngn..." Admiring the face's slow patient wax-figure meltdown; adoring the lips' rubbery shiver; serenading yourself with every dip in the husky hot growls and the mewls rearing up again with animal fervor.

With fingers twisted around _you_ with what could only be called a clumsy exuberance.

A stroke.

Once.

Again.

And there's still the fundamental _ebullience_ in it; there is a wisdom, a candid guileless idiot sincerity, that cannot be denied, cannot be diminished.

"A-am I doin' o-okaaaay?" Trilling; quaking. "It... It feels so good, Orchid- _nee_. I'm gonna come any second; I feel like you could make me come with- with just a _word_.

"I wanna come so bad. B-but... But..." And it is that knowledge, isn't it, in sacral indulgence?

In the simple experiential truth that _no_ language could ever convey.

"But you don't, _right_?" A whisper scalds its passage over her cheeks. "Right?"

"Y-yeah. Yeah. It's just... I mean... It- it's just... 's so _different_ than a girl orgasm. 'cause- 'cause, I mean, I- I love the whole d-d-denial thing." Gurgling now; a gasp deepens into a _growl_ when fingers plunge down down down to the root. "W-whoa, holy _fuck_ , I... I came- came with a _girl_ orgasm- just like that. Just like that." Eyes wild and huge and swiveling like marbles rattling through a pinball machine. "Just like that.

"B-but it's just growing. I don't want it to end. 's like electricity in my hands. It's just... It's so hot; it's so _huge_. I- I dunno how ta say it-"

"It's ineffable, isn't it? It's divine." Kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her, and...

"Ngn... Yuki- _tan_ wantsta be able to touch Mistress Orchid an' Yuri- _himei_. Do you want Yuki- _tan_ 's nasty soft fingers, Yuri- _himei_?"

The only answer can be a palm _hammered_ at Yuki- _tan_ 's cheek.

A yelp; a _squeal_.

Incredulity and eyes trembling with tears in their simple biologic reflex; fingers outstretched, groping for the spectacles that've simply rustled off onto the floor.

"A-ah, s-sorry-"

"I already fucking _told_ you to stroke your nasty cum-hole. Did I _ask_ you to touch either of us? This is for _us_ , you filthy fucking bitch. _We_ will; _I'll_ be sure Yuri- _chi_ 's brush technique is absolutely _perfect_ on your jizz-canvas of a face.

"You'd just fuck it up. I have _no_ interest in squandering one fucking drop on your shoulders."

"S-sorry. Yuki- _tan_ is so so so so sorry, Mistress Orchid! She'll be a good whore now." With fingers, with _hands_ , plunged into that lovely velvet darkness; plucking stroking tugging and only inflamed with the simple anguish that bubbles up from the palm's tattooed relief on her cheek.

"Hah. Hah. Hah. Ah. Ah. Paint Yuki- _tan_. C'mon. C'mon. Yuki- _tan_ wants the _biiiigest_ facial anyone's ever seen. Turn me into a jizz fountain. C'mon. C'mon." Beseeching; delicious.

And how can you refuse?

"I- I wanna come with you, Orchid. Please. Please." Any affectation in the honorifics has become a fucking dodo introduced to Dutch rifles.

It's meaningless, isn't it?

"Ngn... You'd like to come _together_ , Yuri- _chi_?"

"Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. P-p-please, please, just call me _Yuri_ , all right? I'm s-so happy to be doing this. Y'make me feel so amazing. Touching me like this. It feels _real_ ; I feel like I'm going fuckin' _crazy_ , Orchid.

"C'mon. C'mon. I wanna come. I wanna come _with_ you. I- I didn't even know this was fuckin' _possible_." Lurching; shuddering; akimbo with fingers tangled together now and finding purchase upon one another's surrogate flesh.

Teasing and tingling the lips in their soft splayed grace.

Stroke her; caress her; adore her.

 _Love_ her.

Yes, yes, yes.

Lavish her with this.

Caress.

Pluck.

To know the nerves with the violinist's command of the strings in their trembling sinews; to savor the violence pluming up through every _inch_. Toes curl in heaving vertiginous stilettos; knees quiver.

"Are you close, Yuri? Are you?"

"I'm _aaalways_ close. I wanna come; not yet. I wanna come. J-just not yet. I wanna come with you. I wanna paint her with you. Are _you_ close?"

"Not _quiite_ -"

"Then lemme try _this_." It's something incredible; tumbling down down down to her knees with a frenzied clutching hunger. Fingers liberated in their fine velvet grace pluck and pull and eyes cradled in thick bristling quills, draped in violet shadow, crane up up up.

It isn't instant-onset orgasm; no, no, no. It is a relief that it's not. How could it be anything but purified perfection, admiring her lips' graceful quick brush along the peak? The tongue flitting out, coiling rolling rippling in languorous orbits around the head.

"W-wow-"

"More. More. I really wanna lick you more. Don't come yet. Please. It- it kind of drives me crazy to be on my knees like this. I- I feel so fuckin' incredible." Kiss, kiss, kiss; wet and sticky and _squelching_ now with her tongue outstretched.

The thick plump crown _battered_ at it.

An awareness of geometry; a sense of the scholar-warrior clamoring for the body's outlet where there has only been thought.

There is a _great_ deal of technique, also.

Stroked over fuchsia satin; stain her cheeks in shimmering bits of her spittle.

 _Ground_ along her palms; hands gather together, fingers laced around its generous bulk, dragged up and down and up and down and...

"A-ah, ah, fuck, fuck, Yuri, it's- it's going-"

"Let's do it together!" Up, up, up. "I kinda wanted you to cream _my_ face, honestly. It would've been so fucking _hot_. I always wanted to do that. I- I always... Ngn... But let's do it together, 'kay?" Kiss her.

Once.

But a _once_ is glacial.

Is epochal.

It is a slow-motion patient gelatin Krakatoa; it is her tongue and her lips and her mouth and her body, closer, closer, closer. It is a hand draped around her, and it is hers upon _my_ body. It is a stroke. Patient, plodding, languid.

Down down down.

And up again.

"I... Ngn... It's- it's so _hard_ ," so to speak. Aren't we witty. "It's so hard to keep it back. H-how can _you_ do it like that, Orchid?" With imploring eyes.

With absolute _incredulity_.

"Magic." The smile could churn a drowsy obese python into heaving gnashing madness. There's only disbelief smeared over her lips.

"W-whaddaya mean?"

"Ah... It's- it's just... It's experience; it's _jadedness_ , I guess. It's just... It's... I'm gonna..." Because the eyes still peer _up_ into mine.

Because there is only the elemental perfection in this, in the delirium wreathing every inch; in the electric madness that bubbles and pulsates and _explodes_ up through every nerve. Because it's arrived. That whimsical sublime.

That absolutely _meaningless_ moment in the neurology's vicissitudes, its arbitrariness, its vagaries, that will declaim to the body that _it's time_.

Convulsive; straining up from dark evolutionary waters.

 _It's time_.

To throb.

To palpitate.

For the simpleminded idiot compulsion, for the procreative impulse, to roar and heave and simply _be_ ; for the muscles to riot; for there to be tension and hunger and frenzy and madness and for the juices and humors to rear up.

Explosive.

"Ngn... It's- I'm gonna come! I'm gonna come, Orchid!"

"I am, also. D-don't stop touching me, all right, Yuri? Don't stop for even a fucking _second_ ; wring out every drop!"

There are not screams.

Silence; a quietude that is only a canvas for the gradations in its pitches and quirks. It is to know her eyes; it is to gorge yourself on a supreme somatic awareness. The body and the body; the flesh and the flesh; the symmetry in this delirium.

It's to _stare_.

For the ears to be lavished with the heavy hot wet _spatter_ in the flesh's fictive produce; in the play-pretend sexualities that are no less real in their simple immediacy, their huge lunging sprays flaring up from the heads swollen thicker and almost painfully cartoonish while delectation that is nothing like fulfillment's meaningless vacuous permanence _rears_ up through every inch.

While toes curl and jaws clench and bodies quaver and quake and her fingers are decisive and quick in their clenching caress; while _mine_ enlist an experience, an expertise, a knowledge in self-love that is an inviolable wisdom in the philosophic and the biologic and it is to guide her, urge her, to...

To _drown_ yourself in the spectacle. In immense pallid spears that rear up, that slop and slosh and slide and slip and drool and spatter and swarm our canvas in her dusky grace; that don't merely settle but _rear_ up in clinging taloned frenzy over the spectacles' shimmering frames and lenses simply _effulgent_ now with vast alabaster mists.

Cooing; quivering; giggling. Serenaded with the bliss in lips pursed; in fingers swept and stroked and wheeled and twisted over lips and prodding probing _adoring_ a rarefied pearl in its succulent inflamed cowl.

"Ngn... Ngn... Ah..." Adored now with Yuri's achingly delicious quivers.

With balance something that happens to other people; with the last sprays rearing up, _explosive_ , again and again and again, and finally, finally simply _ending_.

Awed.

 _Aghast_.

It is the simple truth in fantasy's fruition.

There is bliss.

There is disappointment and woe, also, when potential in its infinite undifferentiated dimension is shackled to geometric absolute.

"W-whoa. Whoa. Whoa." But there is no sorrow; no, no, no. No despair in her eyes, huge and incredulous, gawping gawking awed with the _spectacle_ brandished now with the supremest bliss. With Yuki- _tan_ 's lashes _dripping_ in their heavy inky quills with a negative shadow in creamy elegances; with huge sloughing swarms encrusting themselves on her cheeks hot and burgundy with an imperishable hungry flush; with fingers clasped in that dark delicious delta beneath the qipao's oh so malleable hem jerked up up up to her belly.

With the pallid clots and wads and sheets coalescing and warming and dribbling and simply slipping apart, also, with that sumptuous likeness in the lust's strange serums.

"W-whoa. Whoa. It's so beautiful; she's so _beautiful_ coated with cum like that. It's fucking _incredible_. And- and her glasses, too. I love it. Love it." Fingers _tear_ into the flesh that knows only polarized perfection; one and two and three and another tug and another and another and...

And there's a sexual insanity when _her_ hand has settled on her own girlcock.

Straining into it.

"I- I wanna come on her face again. I wanna come on her face again _so_ badly."

"No, no, _no_. Not yet, anyway." With a fingertip _rapped_ at her nose's bridge.

Chastened.

Still.

A smile guiltier than a puppy with a snout still half-jabbed in a peanut butter jar.

"W-why not-"

"Because we have something _else_ , Yuri. Don't you remember? Really, you're just _irrepressible_ , aren't you? Incorrigible." But she must be kissed.

Must be adored.

A palm cradling her cheek in its scalding carmine flush.

"Ngn... I _am_ , Orchid. I really, _**seriously**_ am. I can't help it; can't help myself. Look at her all coated in our jizz. It's- it's so _shiny_." And it is.

An enamel effulgence shimmering on pert plump lips; cream upon cream.

Still pursed.

"Ngn..." Quivering; a hot little coo from Yuki- _tan_ 's nostrils. "Diggles." The word muddled and distended with the simple labor in lips _snapped_ resolutely closed, prickling up from her nose.

"T-that was _so_ fuckin' cute, Orchid. Wasn't it? And... And she has that amazing dark skin; like yours. She's so incredible. And- and there's so much even in her _hair_." And there is.

Not oceans clotted in the heavy auburn ringlets; shimmering diffuse points that trace the twists and quirks and pits and divots and rises.

Ranges frosted in cream.

"That's so fucking sexy. It tickles, huh, Yukiko?"

"Ngn-hnnng." The nod is achingly patient; heavy quivering wads gathering on her chin simply _distend_ with it, swaying and twisting and unfurling in a thick shivering thread.

Down, down, down, finally simply _broken_ , spattering in a stout cooling pearl on her right knee.

"W-whoa. Whoa. Are you _sure_ I can't come on her again?" Enchanted with the demented geometries in twisting fractal perversion.

In white upon sunset in inverted shadow.

In fingers _peeling_ open lips; prising them apart in a crazed clutching expectation.

A plea.

More more more more more.

All-you-can-eat.

" _Hngniouenmymfnw_?"

"That's adorable, isn't it? Our little whore's trying to talk. It's just... It's _touching_ , really, ain't it, Yuri?" Kiss her; once, and again, and again.

Slow and unhurried and it's something that denies anything like haste. To linger upon this perfection; to savor her fingers pulled up up up to twist around mine.

"Yeah. It's... It's so fucking _hot_." There is nothing like sanguine clarity in this. There is only the flesh's relentless clutching clamoring.

It is only the simple will to gorge herself on the meat-buffet that's been duly proffered. It is not the Tyrant's affectations in disinterest, but a candid and prepossessing fanaticism for _this_. Not to shrug off the banquet's allure but to heave without decorum and without pretension into it with fingers and simply to _plunge_ your face into the soup and suck down the fine consommé, or perhaps the lobster bisque.

"I want it. I want it. I- I want her to keep all the cum on her face."

"Of course. You don't mind, do you, Yuki- _tan_?" Her head shaken; huge quaking sheets simply _slop_ off, spattering on the carpeting in an irresistible invitation to custodial horror.

To fingers prodding with incredulity, with simple befuddlement, the humongous superhuman _globs_.

"Ngn... It's so _nice_. Yuki- _tan_ is so so _**so**_ happy to be coated with Mistress' an' Yuri- _himei_ 's jizz. Bein' creamed is just amazing. It really is. Your bukkake makes me feel so _nice_. But there's even _mooore_ cum.

"Does Mistress want to see it? Does Yuri- _himei_ -"

"Oh, we will." There is the will to abuse.

To punish.

A heel outstretched; _speared_ into a soft lush thigh, still oh so sleek, lean, muscular.

Feminine perfection in its cultivation.

"You're going to lie down now, Yuki- _tan_. I think we should _really_ take advantage of the mattress in our suite. It'll be absolutely fucking _delectable_. Don't you think, Yuri?"

"Uh... Um... It's just, y'know, I don't care _where_ we do it."

"No decorum at all."

But, well, how can there be any complaint?

Perfection in its purest guise.

Ravening.

Animal.

Atavistic.

Fingers outstretched, _urging_ Yuki- _tan_ 's hand closer, closer.

"Come here, Yuki- _tan_. Mistress Orchid will escort you to your bed. You're definitely not only going to be _fucked_. You're, well... It sounds almost affected, doesn't it?" With a languor that language could never _quite_ hope to capture in its ornate and rococo intensity.

"But it's true. We're not only going to _fuck_ you. We're going to ruin you; we're going to _ravage_ you. Rape you 'til you can't fucking sit.

"And 'til you can't fucking _stand_ , either."

Never mind stand _it_.

Pull; tug; twist; _jerk_.

Yuki- _tan_ and Yuri, also, in their succulent sashaying femininity.

The door jerked open.

And there's only...

A blink.

Slowly, slowly, lashes tracing a patient and simply disbelieving stroke.

Once.

And again.

A figure huddled in the darkness; a diablerie; a gray eminence in a long-legged flourish that defies anything like simple _credulity_. Because it cannot be. It must simply be ignored in the familiar pageantry; it must be blinked away.

Once.

Again.

And the hallucination still perseveres; one shapely leg draped over another; a knee tucked into a knee; hosiery is brilliant in its lavish anthracite luster on soft pallid skin; the hair is dragged up, high, high, high, an achingly peremptory bun speared with chopsticks tasseled with shimmering points of light like microscopic glimpses of dew dribbling from a flower's fine satin petals.

The fingers are fine, nails brutal and sanguine with blood's rich ruddy hues.

The face sharp and angular and vulpine; the eyes cold and still _intense_ behind lenses that could probably be serviceable for the fucking Hubble. The wardrobe is more than familiar.

The word is not _professional_.

Arrogant.

Superciliousness in tailored sharp-cut power suit psychosis.

She is Nazism in stilettos.

She is Die Führerin.

It is...

"What the fuck are _you_ doing here?" The voice is not a cat's irascible hiss; not a dog's proprietary bark or yelp.

It is the wolf's deep thrumming snarl.

Hackles rear up.

"Oh, I thought I was perfectly in my right to see what my delinquent daughter is doing with her time out of school." It's something impossible.

And here it is.

Open your peanuts, and there's a scale model of Machu Picchu.

Ah.

What do you say?

What _can_ be said?

"Come here, Yuki- _tan_. You fucking _whore_." And it is the self-evident's validation, isn't it? In the eyes downcast, averted, blanching to a pallor that casts into darkness the cum's thick alabaster effusion.

The trembling smile.

"You're such a _good_ girl, aren't you, Yukiko- _chan_?" The Impossible's voice is a cold predatory confidence, coiling through the ears; a command beside a command, tandem and relentless and jerking at Yuki- _tan_ 's every pathetic raw plangent nerve. "What's my daughter calling you? Yuki- _tan_? Why, that's just _adorable_."

Isn't it?

Belly churning.

Heaving.

A scalding lather in cyanide syrup, in bile's huge heavy sheets.

And only astonishment adorns Yuri's face.

"W-whoa. Are- are you really Kisaki Eri- _sensei_?" Of course.

Of course.

"Yeah. This's my fucking _mom_ , Yuri." And what can be said?

Ah.

Yes.

Of course.

Here she is.

Machu Picchu.

Perfection in flesh.

Trauma's genesis; anxiety's germ.

Family psychosis' native guise.

It's to know the eyes in their guileful and mendacious indignation with dad's clammy-handed philandering; with the hungers; with the self-indulgent _martyrdom_.

The endless self-flagellating self-abuse.

The faith in sweat-stained fervor.

The...

The _hypocrisy_.

Years squandered on an ideal that could only have been nurtured in tee-vee romantic melodrama; in the _perfection_ in their union, the high school sweetheart _horseshit_.

It's so simple to blame her for the blue-eyed liar.

So I will.

And _this_ , also.

The fucking mother.

"Get down on your fucking _knees_ , you treacherous cunt." It is childish, perhaps; it is petulant; it is the Tyrant's horror at a glimpse of another whose geometries have been minted in this guise, whose intrusion is known, tasted, deeper than merely the flesh, falling to places more primal more primeval than the soul. "You've already paid me for my fucking services, so you're going to goddamn _get_ them! Get down!" Pull.

Jerk.

Fingers twisted in her hair's heavy thick ringlets and there's legitimate _fear_ , isn't there? With strength surfacing not with a dolphin's satin elegances but a fucking U-boat's brutal geometries breaking the waves with artless angular violences.

"Get fucking down on your knees, you worthless whore! Oh, you can be _sure_ you're going to get enough abuse to last you the rest of your fucking life, 'cause we're fucking _done_ with our cute little game!

"No client _**ever**_ fucking lies to me about shit like this!" It's a dancer's high-kick brutality; a heel _planted_ on her thigh in its crushing plunge down, down, down. "Absolutely fucking _no one_."

So shall it be.

"I- I'm so sorry, Ran!" And it is truth; more than merely _this_. Truth is something fundamentally subjective; truth is consensus in its crudest guise, the figment named sanity inflicted on the yielding compliant throng. No, no, _no_.

This is a fundamental _candor_.

It is to peer at yes and _yes_ and to taste the fundamental gradations, the vicissitudes, in their ornamentation, their carving, their filigree, their simple. Fucking. _**Quality**_.

Yes.

And _yes_.

Ran.

Orchid.

They are not merely alike; they simply _are_. Convergent, and irresistible and ineluctable communion. And they are _nothing_ alike. It is history; it is China's vast grandiose Imperial scope.

And it is a Maoist conviction that there has been nothing in the past; for this, there can also be no future. History cannot find purchase in our hearts, so we will dwell not even in the present, in that borderland between past and future, but in an unreal reality.

In this place where shadows are given form and light recedes into nothing.

Where her body is mine, yes, and not only the blue-eyed liar's mother; where it has not simply incubated this meat, this useless irredeemable flesh, this irremediable ugliness, this odium that has tormented from a non-being, from a non-person, and still, still, it is here. It is fucking _here_. An Appalachian funerary dirge deep from the breast. It's Ayumi's poison, her fanaticism, her _fetishism_.

Her fucking disease.

The Primitive Baptists in their a cappella serenade.

I dwell with Coppelia here; I taste the marionette's strings tugged, twisted, jerked. The heart and its tendrils reaching out to stitch themselves of their own accord, without consultation, without a fucking _whisper_ of consent into another's flesh.

Fuck.

 _You_.

All of you.

"Ran?! My name ain't _Ran_. It's Mistress Orchid, Yuki- _tan_. You're not Kudō Yukiko here, you fucking _whore_." And the hell-heel must be ground, twisted, _speared_ into her thigh's soft lavish flesh.

There must be a tremor, a quiver, a coo from her lips.

"Do you understand me, you filthy goddamn _bitch_?! That's all you are; you're a hole for cock. For _anyone's_ cock, right? Look at you; look at you. _Slopping_ with girl-jizz. And you're here with my mother. I won't even _ask_ if she knows about your other lover.

"I'm sure it's probably one of her colleagues, right? Some sleazy attorney." Eyes flit up; and down again. Yuki- _tan_ 's eyes are _more_ than humongous; tears bubble up; and still, still, there is a quiver, the lips sticky effulgent with cum and twisted in an imploring pout.

"N-no, no, Ran-"

"It's _Mistress **Orchid**_. Do you understand me?" Knelt now; flesh in its figments still _screams_ , roars with immoderate craving.

Because there is nothing but only its fantastical biologic pantomime; there is only the fiction that it is _mine_. Because, whatever the elemental madness in it, in _mom_ there, in Kisaki Eri- _sensei_ , the fucking Courtroom's Queen, there is still desire shuddering and coruscating in the electrical, in the neurological.

Shame.

Humiliation.

Bubbling up up up through the cheeks. Staining your flesh in its candid sun-kissed grace with burgundy fury. With a glance at Yuri- _chi_ , at Noriko, yes, yes, and there is an awareness that life in its vicissitudes, its vagaries, its comfortably bifurcated or trifurcated or fucking _multifurcated_ convolutions has just...

Just begun to _crush_ together with an asteroid roar. With splintering stone and bone and meat and muscle roaring and howling and there is a fantastically juvenile craving to stamp your feet, to cast away the heavy breasts and the lean muscle and only to _scream_.

Scream. And scream. And scream.

This isn't fucking _fair_.

This's _my_ girlfriend, mom, you cunt!

And this is... Is my job.

But why do I even _crave_ one?

All of this. All of this. It's _his_ fucking fault. Not even a simpleminded scapegoat compulsion but the fundamental truth. It _is_ his fault. Dragged into that black orbit, and there can only be its ineluctable wrenching gravity. His being or non-being is ultimately a meaninglessness.

She is here.

I am here.

Fingers laced through Yuki- _tan_ 's hair.

A tug.

A jerk.

"You little _slut_. Do you fucking understand me? You're going to be _punished_ for this. And it won't be an oh so adorable bit of slapping and spanking. You're going to _sob_ ; you're going to _wail_ ; you're going to wish and beg and plead and _pray_ that the fucking kami and gods and God and Gods and every gradation in that shit are going to return you to the _second_ that you called me and let you reconsider being my goddamn _**mother**_ 's henchwoman.

"Do you hear me?" It is a snarl; it is an act of supreme madness. It is eyes flitting to Yuri- _chi_ ; it is knowing _hers_ downcast. "And you, _Eri_ - _ **san**_?" Eyes transfixed with mom's.

It is to know power's simple arrogance.

She is never _seated_.

She is _enthroned_.

"Look at you, Ran- _chan_ -"

"Don't call me that, Eri- _san_."

"Calling your own mother by her name. Calling me _Eri- **san**_. You know, Kogorō does. Eri- _san_. It's the strangest thing." With slow languorous ease. "Your father is such a sleaze, isn't he? Such a fucking _child_ -"

"Shut up. I'm _not_ Ran here. Do you understand? I don't know exactly _what the **fuck**_ you're doing with Yuki- _tan_ , but she's _my_ client-"

"She's _my_ girlfriend. I asked her to call you, Ra-"

"Orchid. You will call me _Orchid_ , Eri- _san_."

"Then call me _mom_. It'll be an agreement. You're studying law. A meeting of the minds. That's what a contract's about. Call me _mom_ , and I'll respect that. It's not a hard compromise, is it? You always used to call me _mom_ -"

"You used to _be_ a fucking mother to me." It's not a truculent snarl.

Not a snap.

A simple clarity in the voice's cold lucid ease.

"But that's fine, _mom_. I'll call you that-"

"A-ah, um, y'know, Orchid, ah... If, like, if this's too weird, maybe I should just, ah, g-get dressed an' go." With Yuri's eyes averted, slipping down to the high high high heels on which she's borne aloft.

"No. Don't, all right, Yuri- _chan_? 's all right; it really is. This is just... Well, you've always had a crush on my mom, right? Pretend she's not there; or stare at her while you fuck Yuki- _tan_ or whatever. If- if you'd rather not, that's all right." Isn't it?

Standing now; fingers still _twisted_ through that treacherous whore's hair.

There is a pull; a jerk.

"But I'm going to fucking _hammer_ you, Yuki- _tan_ , 'til the simple _idea_ of sitting in the immediate _century_ is anguish for you. Do you understand?" Wrench her closer, closer. "Look at you. Stand up, you jizz-smeared little bitch.

"You're just fucking _disgusting_ , aren't you? Not as disgusting as _you_ , mom. Why did you do this? What? A bit of humiliation for me? You already know this's my job; I _know_ you must know. What? Was it Ayumi? You're banging her, aren't you?" Reality is so comfortably bifurcated, isn't it?

Sawed open with a rusting bread knife.

The ragged fringes shudder and droop and wilt and bleed.

"In my defense, _Orchid_ ," there's only the unnatural in this, isn't there, in mom's voice's slow languorous meander, "I don't think there's anyone that she thinks is beautiful she hasn't fucked."

"I'll grant you that one, _mom_." A breath drawn. "That's true. And you, Yuki- _tan_?" Eyes immense, trembling, glazed in _every_ possible connotation.

"A-ahn, ah, y-yes, yes, Yuki- _tan_ has-"

"What a _whore_ you are." With a palm finally simply _cracked_ at her cheek. The cum's half-tacky, thick and quivering and threading into gelid cables that scribe a languid patter over the heavy lush carpeting, more grandiose than the sitting room's.

And there's a simple conviction to jab a palm against her lips; for the cum to bleed into cum; for her tongue to flit and roll out and lap and stroke and slather and there's only lust. Lust. Huge and explosive and implacable and irrepressible.

Because all is lust, isn't it?

"I'm going to fuck you now, Yuki- _tan_. You're just _flooded_ with jizz, right? Your every nasty hole? You're going to clean yourself up. You're going to gather _every_ fucking drop of the cum smearing your filthy face you can, and drink it.

"And I'm going to watch. And Yuri- _chi_ is going to watch, also, isn't she? Or would you rather leave?"

"It's just- I don't want it to be weird for you-"

"Oh, don't worry about that." Eri's, _mom_ 's, hers is a wickedness that defies anything as simple, as prosaic, as fucking _unworthy_ as language. A natural Tyrant's ease in this languid insouciant grace; a practiced brutality in every manicured satiny syllable. "What a _beautiful_ girl, Orchid. She's not only your business partner, is she? Such as there's anything like those in your business. But I wonder. You have such... Such an _intimate_ aura.

"I don't think that's an unfair question, do you?" And Her Majesty is oh so insouciant in this, isn't she? "I hope not. I _am_ Kisaki Eri, yes. Yuri, is it?"

"A-ah, um, uh..." Does it merit this _awe_ staining her face? "M-my name is really Noriko, b-but, um, I always wanted to be named Yuri. So, y'know, ah, like, I'm... I'm Orchid's girlfriend. In, like, in _everything_.

"Really-"

"My own daughter has a girlfriend! Oh, how lovely that is. I'm so happy for you two." It's more than unreal.

More than _surreal_.

It's a fucking family comedy-melodrama-psychodrama through David Lynch and Larry Flynt, with a bit of Matsumoto Kazuhiko.

"A-ah, thank you, Kisaki- _sensei_." It's...

It's _her_ prerogative, right?

Yuri- _chi_ 's?

But it's still _mom_.

"Oh, you're so formal. Please, please, don't call me _Kisaki- **sensei**_. Eri is fine. I, ah, you know, when you're in _this_ sort of situation-"

"Which mom clearly knows _so_ much about." How can you not? How can you not feel the rage lather and shudder and shiver and boil and pulsate like a white phosphorus pudding?

"Well, it's best to be informal. You're so beautiful. You know, you look more Japanese than a girl I thought my daughter would like. It's strange. But you have such a _beautiful_ aesthetic. Your face and your body.

"You're a little shorter than I thought, too, but I guess there aren't many Japanese as tall as my daughter and I are. I guess that's what happens when two people taller than six feet have a daughter." Such _compelling_ genealogy. "But, ah, please, please, I'd like you to stay. After all, if you're also _working_ with my daughter, well...

"You _are_ a very beautiful girl. How old are you?"

"N-nineteen, Kisa- uh, um-"

"Eri. Just call me _Eri_." Is that heat percolating up through her cheeks now?

For _mom_?

"E-Eri. Oh, that feels, like, um, the- _the weirdest_."

"Really? Why is that? Are you a law student, also, then?"

"A-art. I- I don't really have, like, the grades for law school."

"Mmm. Well, that's fine. Most lawyers shouldn't be lawyers, anyway. It's all about money." 'cause it's just so _alien_ for mom.

"Yeah, mom. Your ideals are _always_ so palpable-"

"I'm this country's most idealistic attorney. It isn't my fault if many of my clients happen to have a great deal of money. A comfortable quarter of my cases are pro bono."

"Y-yeah. They are. That's- that's why I think Kisaki- _sensei_ is- is so amazing, Orchid. Or, um, I mean, y'know, _Eri_. Wow. It's just- I've always really been a huge fan. An' you're so _gorgeous_ , too, Eri! It's just..."

Fucking traitor.

And there's still no will to abuse _her_.

Still only affection's heavy thick heat.

"It's, uh..." Fawning; adoring. Heavy lavish flushing boiling up through her cheeks. Indigo-kissed lips tremble and purse and clasp together; there is a simple will to _silence_ her. But it's true, isn't it? The body's geometries. "You're so beautiful. An', y'know, um... Your daughter is-"

"Is even prettier than I am. I know that. She has a better body; she has a more beautiful face; she has even nicer hair. It's what you want. I'm sure Orchid is smarter than I am; I'm happy that she's finally gotten comfortable with showing it.

"Getting into Todai on her first try. I'm so proud of her; she didn't use my name." It's...

It would be so petulant to snap and snarl and stamp your feet about _that_.

It's only fucking _awkward_.

"You- don't just sit there, you stupid fucking _sow_! That's what you are, Yuki- _tan_ ; a fuck-pig. We're not finished just because my mother thought it'd be so _adorable_ to be here."

"I was just going to listen, to be honest. I was curious. Wondering about what you were doing, Orchid, honey." Honey now. "I can see you're _very_ good at your job. The way you bruise Yukiko- _chan_ almost beggars belief.

"You're so violent. Always the martial artist, I guess."

How witty we all are.

"Since- since when have you been fucking my _mother_ , Yuki- _tan_?" Should the circumlocutions and fantasies just be cast away?

Should...

It's fucking _enraging_.

All of it.

All of it.

There is only a will to brutality's renewal. To pummel and slap and batter and beat and simply fucking _abuse_ her for being. Ah, ah, this is our compulsion, isn't it? This is our culture's essence. For our victims to be savored in their innocence, in their elemental impotence.

To kick the dachshund and not the German shepherd.

"Ngn... Nya, Mistress Orchid, Eeeeri- _tan_ ," and there's only an elemental surreality in this, in the whine that rears up with a hot trilling zeal from cum-enameled lips, "Swore me to secrecy-"

"It's fine, Yukiko- _tan_. Now." While a palm is upraised, knee a platform for a fine slim elbow. The jacket is immaculate in its tailoring; her suit's every fucking _vicissitude_ is. It's a tribute to sartorial narcissism.

To the self-satisfaction even in wardrobe.

While her chin settles on cradling fingers, the nails diabolic in their lacquer like poisoned carnations whose breath is the essence of a great tropical flower, so huge and so _intense_ that its mere being oppresses.

"Ahn... We've been doing it for a _long_ time now. S-since... Ahn..." Another, another, _another_ , that succulent cooing _ahn_ , soft hot lathering carnal madness. "Since Yusaku decided he just didn't _want_ to be faithful to Yuki- _tan_.

"So Yuki- _tan_ said enough was enough, an' she decided to take Eeeeeri- _tan_ 's advice." Cooing and crazed and...

And delicious.

"It's been _years_ now. Yuki- _tan_ is Eeeri- _tan_ 's girlfriend, you know. She's Eeeri- _tan_ 's committed girlfriend. We could go to Disney World an' get married if Yuki- _tan_ didn't hafta pretend to still be married to that _bastard_ , Yusaku." And there's nothing like the chirruping garrulous childishness _now_.

Brows furrowed; eyes narrowed.

"Y-your girlfriend?" Eyes flit from Yuki- _tan_ to mom.

From mom to Yuki- _tan_.

"Of course, Orchid. What? Did you think your mother has absolutely _no_ humanity at all because of her job? Yukiko- _chan_ is my committed girlfriend. And we _have_ been together for quite awhile, haven't we?

"It's nothing exclusive, of course." A smile in bilious wicked syrupy self-satisfaction stains the lips. "Clearly. You, ah, _have been_ enjoying yourself with your client, haven't you? To be candid, I've been paying half of the bill-"

"You really are fucking deranged, mom."

"Yes. Maybe I am. Oh, and, ah, Yukiko- _chan_? I think my daughter gave you an order, didn't she?" There can be only a single Tyrant, can't there?

And here, here, there are two.

"Ngn... T-that's right, Eri- _tan_. She did. Yuki- _tan_ is so so so sorry, Mistress Orchid. She's so happy to be your whore, you know? 'cause Eri- _tan_ loves to watch her be a slut. She... Ngn... Can I tell Mistress Orchid, Eri- _tan_?" Eyes cast up to the enthroned play-pretend divinity.

Or perhaps she is a demigoddess.

"Oh, that's fine. It doesn't matter _now_. It was only supposed to be a surprise if, oh, it stayed a surprise." While Yuri- _chi_ is simply _here_. Standing.

Fingers laced together; eyes trembling with an ambition to slipping away, to denying themselves this, and still rearing up again with a clutching plea for purchase on _everything_. The lips are pursed; the jaw is clenched.

Pulsating; slowly, slowly, easing open and falling closed again with a sharp crunching pressure.

"Um, Yuki- _tan_ loves to be a _huuuge_ slut for Eri- _chenchei_. When she's bein' a brat and a bitch and a whore and it doesn't really matter. Does it, Eri- _chenchei_? 'cause Yukiko is _your_ slut. No matter what you want her to do. Like this! Like this!" Fingers simply _swept_ through the cum's heavy quivering smear; not daubed with a delicate tease on the tongue but only shoveled between plump lust-encrusted lips.

Once.

Again.

Again.

"Ngn... Yukiko- _tan_ is so happy to be Eri- _chenchei_ 's whore. It drives her absolutely _crazy_ to just... Just be a fuck-doll; to fuck and fuck and fuck. To be totally _filled_. Nya!" Another heaving convulsive mewl with porno manga refugee zeal.

And how can there be anything but _awe_?

Competition, also.

An awareness that you...

You dwell forever in not merely her shadow. No, no. It's a negative light; it's a penumbral ocean curtaining you. Your life is wrought in her negative presence.

In her being's simple wickedness.

There is no flight from a being that is both darkness and light at once; in a demoness whose beatific grace is a perfection that defies understanding and belief. There is no escape.

There is no relief.

"To be totally filled while Eri- _chenchei_ watches. Or does _more_ than watch. Ngn... Yukiko- _tan_ always needs to swear the boys an' girls to secrecy, of course. Not that they'd really believe. Isn't it wonderful, Mistress Orchid?

"Even _you_ didn't want to believe!" It is a fantastical fanaticism.

A fetishism. The ideal named celebrity; our clamoring to commune with this divinity. But it cannot be believed. It would _never_ be understood. This union in flesh with the celestial, with the plastic perfections that are wrought in our cellulose reflection.

They are our ideals wrenched from the flesh and given form.

A sainted chastity, even while they are our onanism's lodestar.

An exalted probity, even while they are our deepest vice.

The sublime named _idol_.

Yes, yes, yes, the exalted idol, Kudō Yukiko. The mother that is not a mother at all; there must simply be a belief wrought in our faith named cognitive dissonance that she has never been touched. Her purity is everything, isn't it? Even while the fantasies heave her cradled in the lingerie's gauzy cinema-fueled enticement on her knees.

Even while her lips sticky and wet are brushed upon the flesh; even while her mouth is invaded or her face is smeared, fucked, _drenched_ with the woman's lust and craving.

And she will be planted upon her back; she will be splayed apart. She is to be _eaten_ , a sumptuous meal to be savored without reservation, without compunction; but it is fantasy, and the thrall is broken in an instant.

The fine marble still lurks upon its plinth.

It is a fraud; it is a farce.

We are sheltered in their disbelief. In ours, also.

Touch her; touch her.

"But it was for another reason, right, Mistress Orchid?" Yes.

Yes.

It is.

It is a simple fundamental unwillingness to reconcile yourself with this. With the elemental impossibility in this unreal communion with horror's locus, with the blue-eyed liar's genesis. And she is still here in her genuflection, fine slender knees curtained in thick gauzy fabric, long lovely legs tucked beneath a sinuous curvaceous perfection.

Sleek fingers brushed through the cum, again, again, again, slathered on her tongue and simply _gasped_ down with a relish, an adoration, that is not, _cannot_ , be anything as prosaic as affectation. It is not fantasy; it is not indulgence. Sincere beseeching pleas for more, more, more.

The all-you-can-eat ideal consummated.

She is beautiful. And mom, also, and Yuri, and there is the unreality in all of this. The will merely to levitate upon your adorable heels and to twist and wheel and coil and flourish and waltz through the darkness that's gathered in huge bubbling nimbus draped over every sense.

It shouldn't be possible. _None_ of this should be possible. And still, still, it is here; it _is_.

How does _any_ of this make sense?

Shouldn't there be clarity, an archetypal moment, a _cliché_ when the straitjacket's fabric is tasted in its cinching kiss sodden and hot and prickling with sweat. When there is an awareness that, yes, yes, the impossible _is_ impossible.

There is only captivity's gilded luxuries.

There is only the thorazine needle's kiss.

It is _my_ junk in this parallel place; it is the psychosis not yielding and not retreating but only the violent fang-gnashing frenzy dimming, the obscenities with Tourette's psychosis stilled.

It is...

It is not.

It is not here.

The walls have not simply wilted into overwatered gelatin creased with napalm and curtained in garlic-reeking white phosphorus. There is absolutely nothing but what _is_. The cum has simply vanished from Yuki- _tan_ 's cheeks.

There is... Is mom's simple _exuberance_ in this. The self-satisfaction staining her cheeks. The unreality in mom's thighs shimmering with the compulsory hosiery in _black_ darker than moonless midnight settling upon great pools of pitch ground together with a wicked little sigh.

Once.

And again.

A _whisper_ from the lips.

 _Ahhh..._

"You know, Yukiko- _tan_ ," and there is only the incredulity in this, in mom's voice intruding into _this_ moment. It is more than cognitive dissonance. It is binary extremes simply _heaved_ together, crashed into one another with an asteroid frenzy that should probably be an invitation to some novel generation of vertebrate life.

It should be ragged terrible eldritch beasts scrabbling up from the broken soil.

It should be the sky blackened.

The water poisoned.

The earth ravaged and curtained in hellfire.

It should not be _this_.

"Ngn... I think you should _really_ show your Mistress Orchid what's between your thighs. A little more."

"Well, _mom_ , like you said, _I'm_ her fuckin' Mistress. Not _you_ right now."

"Kya! Don't fight! Don't fight!" With Yuki- _tan_ 's eyes, well...

Simply _churning_ with what could only be called an earnest _legitimate_ anguish.

"Mother an' daughter are just so beautiful. It's just... Mistress Orchid looks so much like Eri- _chenchei_ did in university. Mistress Orchid is divine; an' Eri- _chenchei_ , too. Don't fight. Don't fight. M-maybe...

"Maybe..." Is this something you could almost anoint with that bladed serrated esteem in _animal cunning_?

In fingers laced together, still thickly smeared with cum.

In the eyes upturned, peering through lashes shimmering with creamy beaded desire; with the lenses that've simply _thickened_ further, further, further with the cum's lucent haze.

"Maybe mom and daughter could, um, _reconcile_ through Yuki- _tan_ -"

"Yeah, that ain't gonna happen." With a hand not outstretched but only _cracking_ at her right cheek; hammering at the left. "That is _not_ fucking happening-"

"Why not? Are you afraid, Mistress Orchid? Afraid that I'll be insufferable like always?" It's... It's so fucking _noxious_ in its self-satisfaction.

Mom's voice not merely needling.

Not simply prickling.

It's a fucking acupuncture bazooka.

It's to be a pincushion; an inverted porcupine. It's revulsion with the _confidence_ fueling that affected conciliation.

It's to know the elemental strength in compromise.

You do not compromise with the powerful.

You do with the _weak_ ; so so so little to surrender, so there _must_ be. It is our fanaticism named _face_ being upheld.

It's mine.

"I'm not afraid, mom." And there is forever the... The simpleminded _need_ for strength in its affectations. In the hand still outstretched to capture hers. "I'm not fucking _afraid_. It's just sick-"

"Why? It's not as if we haven't had a bit of, oh, how should I phrase this? Indirect intimacy?" The smile is more treacly than _treacly_ ; is a cyanide syrup, an unctuous heavy luxuriant poison. A diablerie.

"You're talking about Ayumi? If we're doing the degrees of separation shit, then I'm sure I've probably fucked the Pope, too-"

"That's not what I meant. Mmm... You know, I don't want to sound strange, _Mistress_ Orchid, but you probably _are_ the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." An unreality in this. In the Empress not _rising_.

This would be to defame its simple elegance.

An act of levitation.

The carpeting would defile her heels.

The air would rot her sublimity.

It is not with Oedipal fanaticism that this is admitted; it is merely to gorge yourself on the elemental wisdom in poise that would reduce some vapid beauty pageant contestant to weeping recrimination.

She _is_.

This is her essence. A model, an archetype. An _ideal_. It is to know her hips' languorous swinging grace; it is to know the _approach_. And Yuri- _chi_ is here, also, a tremor in the shoulders. The body's and the soul's and _desire_ 's simple treachery.

"It sounds like quite an idea to me, you know, _Mistress_ Orchid. Would it be easier if I called you that, and not _Orchid_? Nothing at all like my daughter? Does the blood really even matter at all?" To know her height in a rarefied symmetry; to be _transfixed_ with eyes that spear through her lenses, magnified in their tyranny.

I am afraid.

I am afraid, because there is only fear in her presence.

Because she is strength.

Because she is conquest.

She does not stoop; to be knelt is merely incidental. There is only dissonance, only a jumbled sense of juxtaposition in everything.

In respect and abhorrence.

In love and odium.

In...

In...

In _this_.

Her lips' sharp glint.

Her eyes' violence. It is not a _promise_ ; it is merely a reality. Nothing need ever be vowed; nothing need even be _whispered_.

The sun will forever be the sun, whatever the language that will be lavished upon its effulgence.

Whatever the theology.

Whatever the mechanistic explications.

It is not its own apologist; it has no need for one. Nor the moon.

She _is_. Her gravity is barbed talons twisted into the gut, stitched through the breast, _ripped_ into the body, pulling, pulling, wrenching, _**tearing**_. Riven open and still, still, there is no flight. There is no ambition of relief from this.

Language is a senseless judgmental ideal.

It is the conduit to fear, to shame.

To be without language is merely to be. Not to know the vicissitudes in desire, in lust, in the self-loathing that must be companion to these things.

There is an ease in this. In her fingers laced up up up through Yuki- _tan_ 's hair.

"You are beautiful, you know, Mistress Orchid." And there is confidence.

Conviction.

There is nothing like _groveling_.

"You- it's not really persuasive to hear _Mistress_ from you, mom-"

"Well, I'm sorry. I'm not accustomed to _stooping_. I'm not. Yukiko, after all, is _my_ girlfriend; _my_ submissive. Ours is a relationship we've had since _you_ were in high school." It is not with horror, and not with revulsion.

Perhaps only some faint stirring morsel of authentic respect.

"Yusaku is sleaze. Like your father. The only difference is that I finally had the conviction to make an arrangement with your father; she didn't." Stirred.

Stroked.

Forever, forever, the blue-eyed liar's aura drapes.

It is a haunting, an apparition, an eldritch morsel of the phantasmagorical. It should not be here; it should not be tasted; should not be touched.

It is.

Imperishably, immortally.

It is not even the cliché that you cannot forget your first.

It is the cliché that you are welded to them. It is memory's indelible violence; it is its imperishable crushing bulk, its unperturbed immensity. Its simple presence.

It haunts.

It will always torment.

There is no flight.

"And _you_ are devastatingly beautiful, also, of course, Yuri- _chan_. How could you _not_ be? My daughter would never choose anyone that didn't entrance her. You're an art student. You must be very talented." And now, now, it is for fantasy's intoxication to swallow Yuri- _chi_.

Fucking traitor.

Right?

"A-ah, well, I mean, y'know, um-"

"She is. Immensely. Yuri- _chi_ is a tremendous artist. I posed for her."

"Mmm." Is that a glint of self-satisfaction staining mom's lips? "A bit of life-drawing? I know you've been intimate with my daughter. At least, I _hope_ you have. It's just a little strange to think about _this_ being your first real sex together. Is it lust? Love?"

"I, uh, I, like... I- I dunno. We've only been together for about a day. I- I really like, uh, um, Orchid a lot. I really do." Again, again, the lily shrinks from the sun's sodden immensity. Her charisma's simple bulk.

Its irresistible vastness.

"I- I-"

"I do like Yuri- _chi_ a great deal." Fingers grope at hers; an achingly elegant lillilicious delectation in this. In hands; in warmth; in humanity. "She's beautiful; she's talented. And she's, well, she has that _adorable_ Nagoya accent."

 _Ohmygawd_.

"Ngn... Orchid, y'make me feel all gooey. 's just... I mean... Why can't we play with your mom, too? 'cause, uh, I- would it make you feel creepy an' freaky an', like, awkward an' stuff just... She- she really has...

"I think she's so pretty, too. Both of you. It's kinda my fantasy. And, uh, um..." It's some rarefied possibility? "I can't believe I wanna ask my girlfriend if I can kiss her mom! I- I just, like, we don't have the totally straightest relationship, right?

"'cause- 'cause we were just fucking Yuki- _tan_ here. Or... Holy _crap_ , you really really really seriously totally fuckin' _are_ Kudō Yukiko. I think I'm dead or somethin', an' this is heaven or- or paradise or whatever." Eyes glazed and dazed. "'cause this's just so fuckin' cool. I just- I just sorta-kinda got the best birthday present, like, _ever_.

"Bein' with you and- and doing all this and... And giving Kudō Yukiko the hugest fucking facial I have _ever_ seen while she's wearing glasses and I have my own fake-real cock and I can _feel_ it and..." And stream-of-consciousness psychosis simply burbles and bubbles in a huge frenetic babble form her brilliant indigo lips. "And you're all so fucking _incredible_!

"And- and I'm just all kindsa naked here with- with Kisaki Eri- _sensei_ -"

"Eri. Please." Mom's cruelty is without boundary.

It is to know only the quintessential Russian ambition. It is for all that lurks upon its borders to be Russia's.

Everything.

From sea to sea.

From Arctic to Antarctic.

It is for all to be her province; to _ensnare_ with the faintest flit of her eyes.

To dwell in her shadow.

And Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes are mesmerized; and they will still meander down down down, rearing up to greet mine.

"Um, o-okay, Eri. It's just... I've always really been, like, the _biggest_ admirer you've had. I- I wrote a letter to you once. Maybe, um, seven years ago? When- when you were fighting with Kujō Reiko o-over the big Counter-Terrorism Case. T-the one where they were trying to railroad that Iranian and...

"And it was really amazing."

"I'm sorry that I didn't answer your letter. My secretary must have been screening my mail. I never got it." Ah.

It's...

Conciliatory.

"T-that's okay. I mean, like, you were so busy-"

"I'm not used to getting fan letters. Letter _bombs_ , yes. I've had at least fifty of those. I'm sure at least half of them are from Reiko- _chan_. We've, oh..." The smile could carve stone like warm Brie. "Reconciled now.

"Jealousy, you understand."

"You're worse than Ayumi, mom." It's not even with recrimination. Only... Only a sense of the supremest awe.

That this is possible.

That there is anything like _intimacy_ with her.

With _us_.

"Don't be like that, Orchid. Really. It was inevitable that we would. She's just _desperately_ envious of your dear mom's reputation. Doesn't everyone covet celebrity?"

" _I_ don't. It's a fucking nuisance to do anything without some asshole deciding that _I've_ inherited some sexually-transmitted fame and infamy from you and Kogorō."

"Oh, you're so cruel about your father. He _is_ your dad, you know. I'm not as frivolous as _he_ is."

"I wish he weren't-"

"Not now, darling." And it's...

Incredible.

And there is only incredulity.

A touch.

Her fingers outstretched; a long slow achingly patient _whisper_ on a cheek.

"Look at you, Orchid. What a beautiful girl you are. You're lovelier than when I saw you last. It's been two years since you've even been willing to come and visit me, much less have lunch, dinner, breakfast... A drink." Mom's voice heavy, thick, and...

And it's an impossibility to ward away this word.

 _Mom_.

 _Mother_.

She is beautiful.

She is entrancing.

She's my mother, also. Oedipal perversion, and there is still only the fundamental reality of what it is. A woman mesmeric in her grace, in her allure. Her simple beauty. It is something elemental; something that no whispers and shouts and bellows and bleats and that another's shame, another's figments, another's delusion in the perversion they call normative can overtake.

Constructed reality wilts and falters and _implodes_ beneath a simple truth.

She is.

And there is nothing at all that can be said, can be done.

Fingertips steepled on a cheek.

A palm's warmth.

"Look at you. How lovely you are. I think I'm more than a little touched with how... How _much_ you've made yourself look like me at that age. Before I went prematurely gray because of your father."

"And the twenty-hour days-"

"Mostly your father. You can't tell me I wasn't a good lawyer. Maybe I wasn't always the best mother, but I tried, you know." Closer, and closer, and closer. "Do you mind if I kiss your girlfriend? I'll be gentle.

"I promise. And she wouldn't want an old lady like me more than you, anyway." It's...

It isn't jealousy.

 _Personally_.

It's the wisdom that mom has been, well, _everything_. The great shadow that eclipses your light's every ambition.

Every feat, every accomplishment, and it is still swallowed down down down into the darkness her effulgence can only conjure.

The shadow is thickest at the inferno's pillar.

"Ngn... It's- um, d-do you mind, Orchid? Really? 'cause, like, I- I wouldn't wanna piss you off." And what an adorable ambition to patience, to delicacy, while Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes roil with lust in its most sodden supersaturated immensity.

"It's fine, Yuri- _chi_. I, ah..." What the hell else can be said, anyway? "It would be helpless, right? You'd resent me for _not_ letting you-"

"Nah. It's just... Um... Y'know, well, it's, ah, just... Ah..." Shivering.

Trembling.

"I feel like I'm _already_ gonna pass out from bein' with so many gorgeous chicks. An' _two_ of us have these incredible plastic cocks an'- an' _having_ one makes me feel like some kinda crazed horny puppy and I _really_ don't know if I can even take being in the same room with all of you.

"So why not just make it _all-the-way_ crazy-"

"Oh, how adorable. Those... Those bits of _technology_." Mom's judgment is something that can only be lauded.

Only _should_ be.

The opprobrium for this hubristic _nothing_. For the figments in plastic enlightenment.

But there's only still awe when her fingers lace around it.

"But you can truly feel it, can't you? Not only a bit of delicious autosuggestion. Believe me, I know _that_." With voice more than _hot_.

More than _wet_.

Craning closer, closer, closer to Yuri- _chi_ ; to know the unreality in... In your own flesh animated with another's will, draped in novel fabrics, with lips hungering and dewy and twinkling in garnet. With a kiss that isn't merely a chaste little graze but long, scalding, lingering.

"G-gah... Ah..." And it's not Yuri- _chi_ 's head thrown back.

No, no.

It's a quiver like a gelatin continent in a seismic tantrum.

"A-ah, ah, Eri- _sensei_ -"

"Eri. Just Eri. Do you feel it? Do you like my fingers? They're soft, aren't they, even with all the paperwork I do? I make _sure_ they're as well cared for as my feet. Do you like girls' legs and feet, Yuri- _chan_? It would be so _tragic_ if you didn't.

"My daughter's legs are even nicer than mine."

"If that's _pooooosssible_ , Eri- _chenchei_. Even if I am a lil' bit biased." With Yuki- _tan_ so obligingly knelt on the carpeting.

"Oh, it is. I surrender to the obvious. My daughter _is_ lovelier than I am; so much lovelier. You'll take good care of her, right, Yuri- _chan_? I _am_ still her mother. You're not an asshole like my ex-husband, I'm sure. She has fantastic taste.

"Or she _can_ have fantastic taste, anyway." Dark.

Baleful.

Is it aggravation with the cosseting maternal bullshit, or is it bliss with it, also?

The simple _passion_ for this.

With fingers twisted around Yuri's surrogate flesh.

With lips upon lips.

Skin upon skin.

"You're so pretty, you know. You're absolutely _gorgeous_. You're just... Just so _soft_ ; you look so Japanese, and not at all. I think _I_ might be more than a little in lust with you, too, Yuri- _chan_. What a beautiful name.

"Yuri. Yuri. It's so _apt_ , right? Have you ever even _bothered_ with a man?"

"Y-yes. Twice, E-Eri-"

"Too _bad_. Oh, well. It's, ah... Would you like to feel something _lovely_?" Knelt now; slowly, slowly, slowly, and there's only an incredulity with this.

 _She stoops to conquer_.

Tyranny in her hands.

Her lips brushed on the peak.

"A-ah, oh, oh, _oh_ , fuck." It is the generational gap tasted in carnal warfare; it is for the familiar hierarchy to be upended. For Yuki- _tan_ to be knelt beside her; for knees cradled in fine fabrics to whisper on the carpeting; for long fine soft fingers to be outstretched.

A touch; something almost maternal in its lingering lavish grace. Stroking, caressing, long languorous kneading hungers. A fingertip _creases_ the familiar hot wet skin splayed open with plastic lust's plump root.

And there is only a sumptuous carnal madness lathering now in this place.

Captured in her eyes; shivering through mine.

"Ngn... Ah, ah, Orchid, this's... I- I mean, um..." Mom's fingers; her lips; her _mouth_ now. An expertise that does not _whisper_ itself but only declaims its perfection in an assertive earnest intensity without brazenness and without ostentation.

It merely _is_.

It is a kiss upon its heavy helmeted head with plump lavish lips.

It is fingers coiling down, down, down.

Swept back, dewy with Yuri- _chi_ 's lust in twinkling strands.

It is a pulsating clench.

A hunger.

Tongue lolling out to taste, to taste, to taste.

"Ah... You taste _succulent_ , you know, Yuri- _chan_. I wonder..." It's something belief-beggaring, isn't it?

To know that...

What a demented fucking cliché.

And it is still here.

"It tastes like a _woman_ , Yuri- _chan_."

"C-call me Yuri, please, please, Eri. Please. Please. Please. It's... Ah, um, y'know, ah... Ahn!" A _squeak_.

"What is it? Are you trying to dissemble from _me_? I _am_ a lawyer, you know. Our business is lies; our business is _unraveling_ them." A kiss, once, again, again, again. "And you taste _exactly_ like a woman. Which, ah...

"Shouldn't _really_ be a possibility. Yukiko's holes are absolutely _locked_. Aren't they, honey?"

"Yes. Yes, Eri- _chenchei_. I- I _promise_ they are. I told you I'd save up _allll_ that nice cum for them. An' I did; I did-"

"This is what my daughter tastes like." It's...

It's to know inferno.

Flaring up between your thighs. There are simpleminded absolutes; there are words that aspire to capture reality in its fullest scope, its every vagary and vicissitude.

 _Transgression_.

This is transgression, isn't it? To know your mother's lips, even in their obliquity; to know the simple unpretentious carnality in this.

"You're so sweet, you know, honey. I thought you'd be a little bitterer. It's obvious that _you_ don't ever allow boys to come inside you, do you? Not like little Yukiko. She loves it. To be _filled_ with cum. But she's not filled with just _anyone's_ today."

Slowly, slowly, the smile's passage announces itself like glacial drift lubricated with rarefied perfumed oils.

"Ngn... I think I'd like you to have something _delicious_ , you know, Yuri- _chan_. You've fantasized about me, right? I'm sure you have. Your _face_ is more candid than anything I've ever seen. You'd be a terrible lawyer with a face like that; a terrible mahjiang player, too, honestly." A kiss; another, another, another, every word punctuated not merely with some faint little whisper but a squelching sodden wet messy _insanity_.

Spattering over its peak.

"Ngn... I- you're going to make me _come_ , Eri-"

"Oh, am I? Really? Like this?" Quickly, quickly, fingers twisted around its heavy plump bulk; the peak's _slapped_ at her tongue, rolling out like an unfurling red velvet carpet. "Just like this? You're going to come with _that_?

"And this, also?" And another hand creeping up, up, up.

Coiling slithering mischievous over soft pert thighs; plucking with a cruel sumptuous zeal at the confluence of flesh and fabric, the delicious seam wrought in its dimpling tight band.

"Ngn... I- I'm really going to come, Eri! I- I don't wanna mess up your glasses!" Or something that's reasonably near to the words, anyway, tumbling tortured and jumbled and simply crazed from rubbery violet lips. "I don't..."

"Yes, you do. But you're not going to. No, no, _no_. I... I don't _mind_ it, of course. It's so artful, isn't it? Oh, it's delicious. But, well, alas, alas," with a sigh that boils hot and dewy over that peak straining taut and with a palpable _authenticity_ now, shimmering sharp relief in the spittle-slathered head.

"Ngn... I- I wanna come; Eri, Eri, Eri, I wanna come-"

"I was going to say that maybe I'd let you indulge a few fantasies and be _inside me_. But, well, if you're only going to give me one or two good pumps, I'd rather it _not_ be like the last date I had before I started with Yukiko." There's only mischief; only a fundamental _brutality_ in this.

In the prolonged slow squeeze.

And Yuki- _tan_ is there.

Or is it Yukiko?

Or does it even fucking _matter_?

Could it aspire to this?

Her fingers patiently poised on her knees.

"Ngn... You're so nice to me, you know, Eri- _chenchei_. Yukiko just feels _delicious_ about all of this. Watching you two. And you should _really_ taste some of this. It's- it's so _sweet_ , Eri- _chenchei_. Maybe not as sweet as _you_.

"But who could be?" Cooing.

Trilling.

Giggling.

Perverse and poisonous.

"Aren't you just adorable, Yukiko- _tan_? You really are." Eri's, _mom's_ , what a fucking perversion its simple admission is, this biologic truth that you've been spat from this diablerie in stilettos, but her voice is a venom-steeped syrup, soft and velveteen in its self-satisfied tyranny. "You make me feel absolutely _delicious_ , you know." And it's...

It's vile.

Vulgar.

Fingers cradling Yuri- _chi_ 's hungering flesh with such _breathless_ affection against a cheek.

A sense that it should be slipping over her shoulder; that it should be vanishing into hair that's still shackled to a bun that's control in tonsorial guise.

"Ngn... Eri, Eri, it- it feels so _good_. Your hands; your fingers-"

"Did you fuck my daughter with this _nasty_ , _**naughty**_ huge thing?" It's more than merely a tease.

It's with such expert elegance; it's a guitarist's masterful ease, plucking and stroking the strings with melodious grace.

"A-ah... I- if you keep- keep even _talking_ like that-"

"Oh, this _humongous_ thick girlcock? Is that what you're talking about? While you stare down at my big indigo eyes? At my soft lips that just _caaan't_ keep themselves from kissing you?" It blazes.

Every word is a bellows _rushing_ through that humongous spattering inferno.

It isn't fair.

"A-ah, ah, Eri, r-really, really, it's kinda too much-"

"With my fingers stroking you like this? Don't tell me you don't _like_ it!" Husky, hot, _deep_. Dark and wicked. And there's the simple perfection in immaculate teeth swept with her tongue's nimble velvet grace.

There's...

There's a plea for _this_ , also.

"Ngn... Eri, r-really, really, I can't keep it in; I really can't-"

"You mean to tell me that you'd _come_ on your idol's face? Just. Like. _That_ -"

"Oh, she will, Eri- _chenchei_! She did on mine without even a _little_ hesitation." Yukiko so fucking _helpfully_ embroidering that carnal tapestry with another few golden threads. "It was so nice, right? Wasn't it?

"Just spraying _allll_ over me-"

"S-stop it. Stop it. I'm really gonna come! I- I don't want to; I just can't help it!" And there's only the bliss in this.

In fingers now outstretched to adore Yuri- _chi_ 's cheeks.

"Don't just _jizz_ on my mom's face. That really _would_ be rude, wouldn't it? Can't you exercise even a _little_ discipline?" Kiss her.

Kiss her.

Lips upon lips; fingers and hands and her tongue and mine and there is an elemental perfection in this and...

And there's only incredulity.

Sharp.

Spearing.

Because it's lips, also, settling on _mine_ ; an awareness of a bulk, a warmth, _ground_ against Yuri- _chi_ 's surrogate flesh.

It is terror.

Immense.

Horror.

Revulsion.

Or perhaps only a likeness of it bubbling in your gut. The instant-onset carnal madness that's something _more_ than merely transgressive shuddering and quaking and thick and sticky and convulsive. It's to know that it isn't Yuki- _tan_ 's initiative.

"Ngn... O-Orchid, Orchid, this's... Is- is this too weird for you? 'cause I feel like I'm about to cream myself if I just _admit_ it's- it's happening, y'know? 'cause..."

It is our passion, isn't it?

Our national fetish?

Is it merely the Japanese, however, in their madness? Is there anything that should be a barrier to this, to beauty and beauty?

To lust and lust?

A perfection in...

"M-mom, f-fuck, fuck, you really..." Peer down, down, down. Eyes tumbling with a ballistic missile's ineluctable surrender to gravity.

An admission that is more than merely psychic holocaust.

The elemental delirium in this. In her eyes craned up, up, up to capture us in our duality; fingers laced around the plastic-fantastic morsels of science-faction that can still ultimately only be reality in subjectivity's endlessly malleable grace.

Tongue lolling; swept, brushed, hot, sticky, sleek beside her lips' succulent warmth.

Her breath's delectation.

"Mmm... You _are_ so sweet, aren't you, honey? You'll let me do _this_ , right? Mothers should love their daughters in _every_ possible dimension, right? Why not this one?"

Is there an answer that is not convention conjured?

That is not also a ricochet from strange petulant places?

"Ngn... M-mom, this's... I... I don't know if this's really the..." What?

What?

"Are _you_ going to come so soon? I thought you'd have more stamina than this."

"S-so did I. Before you... You're so beautiful, an'..." And toes curl.

Jaws clench.

"Mom, I- I'm really gonna come-"

"Not _yet_ , you're not. No daughter of _mine_ should be such a fast shot." It's crueler than cruel; wickeder than wickeder; it's an act of atrocity. A brutal sharp barbed jab skewering the flesh; it's not masculine pride punctured so much as only the elemental truth that there can only be denial's harrowing violences inflicted on the clutching clamoring flesh.

"W-what, b-but, but..." It's a whine, isn't it?

Could only fucking _be_ a whine.

Quivering knees; trembling thighs; the delirium spattering up in humongous coruscating electric tendrils behind the eyes, between the ears, every one not merely painterly but something mad, manic, Caravaggio with Pollock's paint-flinging fundamentalism, a fanatical fervor for huge grandiose mechanical acts of artistic psychosis.

Images gather and melt away in an instant; a flamethrower will braze them away and simply brand an indelible lingering afterimage upon the soul, one, again, again, again, a merciless pulsating cadence in cinematic burn-in.

It isn't fair; isn't fair; isn't fair.

Her tongue is... Is _cradled_ between them; wet heat and velvet hunger and there's only the elemental cruelty in it. Denied relief; clamoring for outlet, and there can be none. It is to know the simple delectation in her poise, her quintessential arrogance.

The _beauty_ in this; in the arch posturing, in the suit that's not only _power_ but a fucking _kraftwerk_ in its every convolution; the long long long legs not folded in Japanese grace but simply tucked under her ass, her hips' succulent voluptuous roundness.

The perfected geometry wrought in shapeliness, in firmness, in untroubled juxtapositions that can only _be_. An archetypal grace. The lenses' sharp glint; the luster in her hair's shimmering supersaturated obsidian. It is mine; it's not mine at all.

Mischievous.

Vulpine.

And it's... It's Yuri- _chi_ and it's also _my_ body, my surrogate hungers in flesh, ground together. Closer, closer, closer, twisted into an ambition to a heavy sumptuous braid nestled between her lips. Suctioned deeper and deeper and deeper and it's Yuki- _tan_ , also, and it's... It's _insanity_.

Fucking insanity. Not an intensifier; a qualifier.

It's sexual psychosis. It's a plea for outlet. For something; anything.

For Yuri- _chi_ 's lips, quavering with a tremor like a hydrogen bomb tossed into a gelatin pond.

It's her flesh; her tits' heavy shiver through the perfunctory bustier that's nothing but a suthuhn belle sublime.

There's...

There is _this_.

The brazen candid debauchery in it that no measure of the plastic can camouflage. It is sensation; it is the elemental authenticity in _this_. In _mom_ 's lips, her tongue, in...

In Yuki- _tan_ craning closer now; in her hands and fingers and it's with the most achingly delectable coordination that a fingertip prods _there_ , there, _**there**_ ; the nexus of reality and fantasy, and delirium's locus.

The simple wisdom that they could only be meaningless. Creeping and coiling around us; lips hungering, clutching, wet and sticky and spattering sodden with lust with her tongue and... And it's to savor the insanity in being encircled.

Mom.

Yuki- _tan_.

And it is mom's fingers, her mouth, dragging us deeper, deeper, deeper, an inscrutable dignity in an act of self-inflicted force-feeding insanity. Yuki- _tan_ 's tongue with velveteen grace, a rolling flitting flicker into a cleft wrought in overripe peach softness, in muscular firmness, fingers stroking and swept and undulating and pitching and jabbing where her mouth cannot be.

Mine.

Yuri- _chi_ 's.

"Y-Yuri, Yuri, f-fuck. Can- how can _you_ survive this?" There's only breathless wheezing torment.

"I- I dunno. It's so much. I- I'm really gonna come soon; I'm really really _**really**_ gonna come soon. C-can't hold it back. Please, please, Eri, d-don't do it. Not anymore; not with Yukiko's hands and... Ngnya!" Not longer a simple mewl.

A _howl_.

"Y-your tongue! Yukiko!" Mischievous, _mad_ , vanishing between Yuri's ass' cheeks in their plump abundance, their sumptuous luscious shelf and... And it's to know _this_. This delectation in another's bliss; the voyeur's simple fanaticism.

Laving; lapping.

"Y-your tongue's going inside me. W-whoa, whoa, whoa, it's... It's so... So..."

"Oh, these _young people_ nowadays, Yukiko- _chan_. Aren't you disappointed that they can't keep it in?" Mom's long-suffering tribute to the divide that's not merely a generational gap.

It's a fuckin' chasm.

It isn't fair.

"Mom, mom, mom, please, please, you- you can't just... Just say something like that-"

"Admit that my technique is the _best_ you've ever had, then." Is there anything like a comparison in this? "Admit that your _mom_ 's tongue, your _mom_ 's mouth, your _mom_ 's lips-"

"W-why're you doing this?" Is it to know surrender, captivity in her eyes?

"Because even an old lady like this has pride."

"W-what old lady?" Yuri- _chi_ 's voice a strangled little squeal. "Y-you're not old; you're so pretty. B-b-both of you; both of you are so gorgeous. I wanna... I don't, like, I mean, y'know, like... Like, I don't want this _ever_ to fuckin' end.

"I don't want it to end. I wanna stay here my whole _life_ ; I wanna stay just like this. I... I wish I could have a _real_ cock. Wish I could have a real fuckin' cock. I wanna real cock; I wanna cock an' a pussy, too, an' I wanna fuck you.

"I wanna fuck your mouth, Eri. I'm so sorry; I wanna just- just push it into your throat like with Yukiko. I'm goin' crazy. I wanna come with Orchid in your mouth. Your mouth is so soft; so sweet-"

"Admit it, then, _Orchid_. Come on, now." With mom's tongue, her lips, everything, every _fuckin **thing**_ rippling twisting teasing tormenting and the universe's definition has imploded from gauzy subjectivity, from the supreme narcissism in that philosophy, into itself.

It is only _more_ twisted.

 _More_ broken upon that axis.

It is not domesticated, but wilder still, its decorum's tiniest morsels simply shredded and cast away in a sordid confetti.

"Mom, mom, y-you're n-n-not the... The _best_ ; j-just fucking incredible. Yuri- _chi_ 's clumsy kisses were even better. A- a real virgin's touch'll always have- have _something_ -"

"I can take that. True love, you know. Or something like that." Is that surrender? Or is it only realism's cold concession? It's... "You two _can_. If I can fit your hungry skin in my mouth, anyway. Are you ready to come?

"Don't be afraid; don't hold _anything_ back. My dry-cleaner is _veeery_ discreet. Or would you rather I, oh... Let you have a glimpse of your fantasy's given flesh? More than just this... This strange vaporous _ghost_ in a power suit?" It's something so fucking cruel. "You know, I breastfed you, Orchid. Do you remember?

"You _loved_ mommy's breasts _so_ much; you were fascinated with them. I wonder if maybe _I'm_ a little responsible for letting you breastfeed 'til you were two. Shouldn't kids be weened sooner? But Kogorō just couldn't get enough, either.

"I had to let _him_ keep breastfeeding for another year." It's horror in its most fundamental Elektra guise.

It's lust's shocking awareness in its strange and surreal genesis.

Oedipus.

Elektra.

Every Greek perversion in its every vicissitude; every Freudian figment, the cocaine-addled motherfucker in its most earnest guise inflicting his own perversion in an ironic bit of psychotherapy upon humanity's every scope.

"Ngn... I had to let Shin- _chan_ breastfeed 'til he was three. He was such a brat; he cried so much that Yusaku made me keep letting him have my tits. I couldn't even _work_." With Yuki- _tan_ 's adorable little mewl from behind me.

With her tongue...

"A-ah!"

"Wow, Mistress Orchid, your ass tastes so _sweet_. Nya! It makes me wanna keep licking you. Do I have a nice tongue?" Slowly, slowly, long languorous _stripes_ over that pucker. Not slack; not simply sloppy, tumbling open.

Not a taut resistance to an intrusion that...

That _spears_.

Deeper; deeper.

"F-fuck, fuck, fuck, Yuki- _tan_ , you nasty fucking whore."

" _Mmmummummm_." This is the answer.

Wriggling.

Squelching.

Sloppy and depraved and... And her fingers creep and meander and it's with a sense of awe that Yuri- _chi_ 's flesh twists and quivers and it is her spine's heaving sharp arch, her head thrown back and eyes tumbling up to mine with glazed quivering frenzy.

"Nya! Orchid! Orchid! It- it feels _really_ good!" One finger; fine, fine, oh so fine. Slender and dazzling in its sleekness.

Not _stabbed_ but only brushed, oh so patiently, wheeling and twisting and dipping now, the flesh yielding and inviting and pulling and tugging and it's vanishing now into that soft succulent darkness.

"Orchid, Orchid, I... I'm really gonna _come_! I am. Let's come together, all right? And- and, Eri, Eri, I... I wanna see you. But I love your suit. I fantasized about this, y'know? Like- like, _just_ like this. With your suit.

"It was gray, an'- an' you... You'd kiss me and lick me an' I didn't even _think_ I could have something like this. I wanted you to fuck me with a dildo. I wanna get fucked; I wanna get fucked. I wanna get fucked _so_ bad." It's no simple coo; no trivial whimper.

It's insanity; it's a carnal meltdown, a sexual fugue state that's a plea for more, more, more.

"Really. You want to get fucked, Yuri- _chan_?" Mom's eyes are...

The word is _predatory_.

It is a glimpse of the wolf's sharp glint spearing through the cold darkness wreathed in the breath like mist crystallizing in the bitter air.

It is hunger.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!"

"Would you like to play a little game, Orchid- _musume_?" Fuck _you_.

 _ **Fuck you**_.

It's...

It's insanity.

All of this.

"Unless you're a little afraid. I'd understand, you know." While... While Yuki- _tan_ 's quietude is nothing that merits the word; while her tongue is simply obsessed, a prepossessing frenzy for every laving coiling stab and spear and _squelch_ into that eldritch place, that unknowable darkness.

"I- I am _not_ fucking afraid. It's just- w-what you're talking about ain't a _game_ , mom-"

"You're not exclusive, are you? That would be _quite_ the hypocrisy, wouldn't it? Or is it... Oh, is it that _you're_ allowed to play? Just like your father?" With fingers twisted around me; with quick pummeling strikes _slapping_ it against her outstretched tongue.

With Yuri- _chi_ so brutally neglected.

"Fuck _that_. I am _**nothing**_ like dad. D-do you understand, mom?" It's pathetic, isn't it?

Not merely to be played.

No, no.

A _violin_ is played.

This is a chorus companion to a pummeling piano concerto and a grandiose philharmonic symphony.

This is...

This is pitiful surpassing the language's very _dimensions_.

"Ngn... It's- it's really okay if you don't wanna, Orchid." With Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes vast, pleading, _beseeching_ through the equivocations and patient congenial bits of concession for _this_. "I- I get it-"

"I'm _fine_ with it, all right, Yuri- _chi_? I- I'd love to play with you, you know. And... And _she_ is clearly depraved. W-why not just let her have an outlet for her pathetic old-lady imagination and- and de..." Silence.

Guttural.

Deep.

 _Snarling_.

Because it's for equanimity to _vanish_ ; it's Yuri- _chi_ more than merely _neglected_.

Swallowed.

Inhaled.

In a gasp; not merely encircled but only _devoured_. Yuki- _tan_ 's lips clamped against overripe peach curvaceousness; her tongue prodding jabbing _melting_ deeper, deeper, deeper. To be tasted from within.

Without.

Ouroboros delirium.

Mom's lips just...

It's the carnal profundity, the _surreality_ , in her eyes craned up up up. In knowing that perhaps gag-reflexes are hereditary in their dimensions.

In her throat distending; a quick plunging pitching stroke, tongue twisted out, the surrogate boy-meat just _skewering_ her.

"A-aaah! Mom, mom, mom, I- I'm gonna... I'm gonna..." Not yet.

No no no.

Not with...

With the simple _dichotomy_ in it. With the battering befuddled achingly wicked clamoring rearing up; with lust in its idiot pounding compulsion raging through every nerve, shouldering aside anything like patience, like reservation, like simple _fairness_.

And still, still, transfixed with her.

With Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes.

With the wisdom that there is something wet and scalding and simply _human_ lurking in Coppelia's machinery. That the Mandrake knows _something_ of the guise it pantomimes.

Kiss her, kiss her, kiss her.

Clamor for her.

Tug and tear and _drag_ her tongue in its satin sublime between your lips. Discipline is an ambition.

Teutonic, mad, _crunching_.

It must be great.

Iron-clad.

Steel-encrusted.

It must throb with a panzer's snarling heartbeat.

There is still the will to twist your fingers in mom's hair, to _bury_ yourself, to vanish into the heat, and...

"What do you think, Orchid?" With mom's...

Mom's warmth not _withdrawn_ ; the lips still lurk at its peak. Still. Fucking. _Tease_. With a voice hotter and huskier now with an sword-swallower's fanaticism for napalm-draped blades.

"It's... I'm..."

"You're _really_ about to go, aren't you, darling?" And it's true.

Yes.

Yes.

"You'd _love_ to see it, wouldn't you, too? To _drench_ your mom? To paint her with your lust, right? To just... Just _facefuck_ your dear mother? Oh, it's just scandalous!" And it's true.

Oh so true.

"So why don't you?" W-what? What, what, _**what**_? Yes, yes, yes. It's... It's a fervor not for its absolute shuddering selfishness but something mutual.

Collective.

"Ngn... N-not alone; not alone. I- I wanna do it with you, Yuri- _chi_. Wouldn't you love that? Both of us? Both of us?" More than crazed.

More than inflamed.

Boiling.

Bubbling.

Convulsive.

"Wouldn't you adore that, Yuri- _chi_? You and I? You and I? Alternation, quick, plunging, just- just _impaling_ her throat? Spearing her down her soft wet neck?" It's something implacable.

There will not be the word _no_.

"I- I don't think I'll last more than one pump-"

"Oh, maybe when you two naughty impatient girls are a little _better_ prepared." With slow sighing vulpine enchantment.

With her burgundy-smeared lips just...

 _Swept_ with a slow patient whisper of a graze of a breath of a _kiss_ on its peak.

An awareness that it _should_ be a man's.

 _Should_ be bloated, hungering, shimmering in its taut clutching plea even without the tiniest glint of moisture.

It should _weep_ its craving.

More.

More.

Fuck, yes.

Yes, yes, yes. This is the word, isn't it? This is our universe, our fervor, our fundamental craving. Our need and lust and desire. It is for a _world_ wrought in _**yes**_. It is a society assembled from this; at the atomic, the subatomic, this is what we crave. To cast away its binary adversary; for _no_ to be banished, to be expunged, not merely to be tossed away but annihilated. To taste its obliteration; to know its ineluctable disintegration into a nothing beyond nothing. For it to shrivel, to wizen, to _melt_ into nihil; for reality's very fabric to open in great dilating pores. For everything to spill through this into a place where the negative flourishes.

So I will cast them away. I _will_ banish these compunctions. There's simply _no_ alternative now. There is nothing that could be called a binary now. There is an is.

And there is an is.

There is no longer an _is not_. Reality's balances have been cast out, ordered from the Temple, and the moneychangers, also, and all must be effaced from this place. There is only _this_ ; only the body; only the meat and the bone and the blood heaving and palpitating and _lacquered_ with this most delirious and succulent junk. All and all and all and all; there is not a _nothing_. We will not know balance; balance is heretical here.

Is a poison amongst those who have known the simple sweet sublimity in its absolutes. And so it will not be admitted. A more glorious poison still; a venom to be jabbed into the veins, to slither up up up through every artery. To know the Ouroboros communion in the flesh stitched into flesh.

We are she; she is we.

We are...

We.

We.

Yuki- _tan_ 's lips; the tongue not merely prodding and jabbing but slithering up, up, up, a faint little murmur amplified into a cranked-to-eleven shudder through the flesh. Eyes more than humongous. A simple incredulity with this.

"And to think that you children think that _you_ have a monopoly on debauchery." Mom's lips, her... Her _breath_ more articulate than the simple words. Language has abdicated its purchase on reality. There's nothing but _this_.

I am she.

She is me.

Ah.

Ah.

Toes curl now; fingers plead for purchase on her.

"Ngn... Eri, Eri, _Eri_. P-please, please, please, I'm gonna go crazy. I- I always thought adults w-were, like, _way_ more perverted than we are. W-we're all, uh, ah... W-what's the word, Orchid? I'm goin' crazy. I can't think.

"W-we're kinda, like... Atrophied an' stuff with- with tee-vee an' internet porno." It's a fundamental truth, isn't it?

Are there many clients beneath thirty or forty whose imaginations are anything but a flat meaningless screen for the electronic phantasmagorias' projection.

Straining. Rearing and lurching up, up, up. A plea for her mouth.

"Eri. Eri. Y-you're gonna... I wanna... I wanna come _with Orchid_. Please. Puh- _lease_ , stop teasin' me so much. An'- an' Yukiko's putting her finger in my butt. T-two fingers!" A squeal now. "It feels really, _**really**_ good.

"'s driving me totally fuckin' crazy." Yes, yes, yes. There is only madness, isn't there? Can there be anything but madness? "I wanna _come_! I can't take this anymore. This's what a boy feels like?!" Bleating, wailing.

Is it?

Is it not?

It's a neurological figment.

But all is neurology, isn't it? If plastic is neurology, what distinguishes it from the flesh's fabric?

I cannot know.

You cannot.

 _We_ cannot.

When reality is fantasy, and fantasy reality, why not just cast away the trite well-trodden truths and certainties and _live_? Why not simply dwell here with her in this place of animate shadows, of crazed coiling hungers? Why not simply succumb to the frenzy?

Why not?

Why not?

Yes, yes, yes, there is the simple wisdom.

Why not?

Why not?

Is there a compelling reason to reject it? Is there anything but fear? Is there the terror, the _horror_ , named shame? Is there anything behind this? Is there any iron in the vacuous shadow that rears up, that swallows and curtains?

We are a primitive people. Humanity; we can only aspire to this elemental primitivism that we delude ourselves must be sophistication, must be _civilization_. To reject desire and bliss and perfection. To gorge yourself on self-abnegation.

To surrender before the kami and the gods and god and Gods and God and to reject your simple desires. You cannot crave them, _because_. Because another has dictated otherwise. Because there must be an exalted order.

There are the genes, yes.

There is chemistry.

Hawa, however, did not shackle her affections alone to 'Adam.

And 'Adam to Hawa.

Was there not lust then, also? Do we not swallow down, down, down the fundamental desires in our flesh? We will seek with confirmation bias fanaticism our wishes' validation. We will not crave these wishes at all. We must persuade ourselves _not_ to act. It is not to inflict our cravings with selfish solipsism upon another in our shuddering terror.

It is to reject the hungering lips.

The imploring eyes. The fingers outstretched. The thighs splayed.

Mom's fingers falling down, down, down. A _brush_ along the soft sleek skin that announces in its sibilance communion in flesh and fabric.

"You two should, you know. I have something _delicious_ to show you; I have a _sublime_ game for you-"

"Orchid, c'mon. C'mon." Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes entrance; they beseech; they are _will_ in trembly rheumy obsidian. "D-do you not wanna do this?" Is it a sense of awe that there is not the demand, _Why aren't you doing this?_ But, _Do you want to do this?_

Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes mesmerize.

"I... I want to, Yuri- _chi_. I do. It's just..." What?

What is the _it_?

There is no terror for misshapen children.

This is all.

"I wanna do it." But Yuri- _chi_ will not be constrained; she is not a hypocrite; she is not shackled to this prepackaged opprobrium, this _onus_. "I wanna do it. I wanna do it, Eri. Eri. C'mon. Please, please, _please_ , do us together. 's just'... Like, it sounds so nice. When- when you pushed us _both_ in your mouth. When- when it'll be all _hot_ around me. Around Orchid. C'mon. Kiss me, Orchid." And so it is. So there are lips falling together; so there are _mom_ 's, fuck, fuck, this word, this _name_ , this prepackaged meaning in its syllables.

Mom, mom, mom, _mommy_.

I want it.

I want _you_.

It is not Oedipal. It is not not that she is stained with that banal morsel of plastic transgression named _mother_.

It is only a plea for _her_. For the body. For the sainted archetypal ideal in the long long curvaceous legs; in the heavy soft breasts.

In her mouth now fastened around _both_ of us. It is to know something that lurks for the jaded, for the veteran, the nearest likeness of the gut-roiling fear and the befuddlement and the unease and the simple _awe_ in this immediacy. In this novelty.

Because we will forever clutch at new delectations we will call perversions.

 _This_ is the deepest addiction. Transcending the junk-fervor that will spear through the veins, that will twist the farce named sanity into a deeper wreckage, that will animate an ardor, a fanaticism, a _fundamentalism_ that is the authentic madness in junk-hunger.

It is...

Now.

Kiss her; kiss her.

And know Yuri- _chi_ 's tongue's slow syrupy slither; gorge yourself on the wet bubbling lust pluming from Yuki- _tan_ 's mouth, her lips, her tongue's quick flit and its endless long patient _stroke_ higher, higher, higher. To be eaten; to be _tasted_ from within with only the supremest relish for every inch.

And it's here. It's _here_. Ground in a strange polarized sense of the supremest _perfection_ against Yuri- _chi_ , against myself, the plastic fictive neurology in parallel. Mom, or is it Eri, or does it even matter? But even her _teeth_ animate only a supersaturated bliss. Tortured and twisted and it would perhaps be anguish for a man.

I am not a man at all. Boy-meat is a banality; a man is nothing but flesh. Nothing but idiot snarling snapping exhortations to outlet. Mankind's every enterprise, its every ambition, its every affectation, its every design and artifice and creation, it is with but a single destination.

Fucking.

Getting laid.

To conquer is to plead for another land's women.

To churn your banal corporate and commercial alchemy is to plead for cash. For gold. For gold is a deeper alchemy still; gold becomes chicks.

And this...

This is meaningless.

But there is a counterfeit; there is the awareness that the imitation is immeasurably finer than its inspiration, than its source. Your eyes are transfixed with Yuri- _chi_ 's, but there is no discipline. Ours tumbling down now, now, now, and there is only a coordination that should perhaps merit the word _serendipity_.

A wail rearing up from the lips; a crashing slopping sonic insanity, Yuki- _tan_ 's fingers teasing and tormenting and taunting and twisting through her, a third slipped into that hungering flesh that is perhaps opening with a man's need, also.

And her tongue slapping and spattering on mine.

And now, now, it's...

Here.

Coming.

An understanding of this word in its essence.

Up, up, _up_.

Not simply an instant-onset sexual psychosis. It is a _blaze_ ; a patient inferno whose simple bulk is its own irresistible momentum, crashing and crushing and crunching through anything like an obstacle. Its great shoulders hammer through every nerve's every _inch_ , every morsel. It _rips_ through me; _**gouges**_ through me.

It pummels and pounds and it is to become this. To know eyes rearing open so vastly that light's faintest prickle is a blinding effulgence.

Trembling.

Knees shudder like overwatered gelatin.

Thighs quaver.

And it's...

It's _hers_ , also.

Yuri- _chi_ 's.

"Yuri. Yuri. I- I can't hold it back anymore-"

"I can't! Fuck. I- I'm gonna really _do it_ , Orchid. Orchid. Yeah. Yeah. Eri. Eri. C-can... I wanna... I wanna touch your face-"

" _Urghiit_." There's...

Something.

But it is admission; it is not surrender but only encouragement. Yuri's fingers brushed on mom's cheek; and mine, also.

Because it must be.

Why not finish your plate and plead for seconds and then tenths when you've been fed poison?

It is all the most delirious venom, anyway.

Pull her closer, closer, and it's to be dragged and tugged and _ripped_ deeper, deeper, deeper. Reality's fabric torn and it's spilling up now, from her, from me, a promiscuity in the heavy heady treacly juices, the creamy thick oceans that are coaxed into being in an instant.

A fucking _geyser_ ; higher, higher, more, more, more, spurting and lashing at mom's throat, her palate, her _everything_ , squelching and sputtering around us, lips in their lavish fullness twisted around the flesh that pleads for more, more, more, and is altogether too fucking huge a mouthful.

But there is the _will_.

Her throat's quivering, _bloating_ with it; her belly rippling with a palpable grace through the blouse cradled in the jacket's sharp stern cut and...

And it's still _frothing_ around us.

Gelid heat upon heat.

Upon heat.

Upon heat.

More and more and more and finally, finally, it's...

It's to be cast from Paradise.

To know a cold desolation, even while the electricity rages and races higher, higher, higher, with Yuki- _tan_ 's tongue, with her fingers, with mom's hands _grinding_ together that flesh.

"Y-you girls _really_ are generous when you're feeding a lover, aren't you?" Cum's heavy quivering threads still dribbling with an untroubled juxtaposition in dainty indelicacy from her lips. Drooled down, down, down.

Gathering on her chin and simply slopped back with her tongue's quick cream-painted stripe.

"So _delicious_. You really are. But, ah, I think there's still just something _wanting_ in all this technology. Don't you think, Orchid?"

There's...

There's an awareness of boundaries breaking.

"Call me _Ran_ , mom. S-shit, it feels so good-"

"Oh, how _sweet_ you are. Ran. Ran. It's a beautiful name, isn't it? Isn't it, Yuri- _chan_?" Yes, yes, yes.

It is semantical.

It is still truth in this.

And it's...

It's banishment from perfection with her fingers' slackening; still awe when their nimble grace shovels the vestiges back between her lips.

"But I still think there's something, oh, _wanting_. Y'know... I thought I'd show _you_ two something interesting. If you don't mind, of course, Ran." Does it even matter now? Does it matter?

 _Could_ it matter?

When knees wilt; when spines do not arch with assertive straining strength but only a will to melt into yourself, to implode into delirium, and...

"S-sure, mom-"

"Oh, it's so _nice_ to be hearing that from you now. Even if it doesn't last." Standing, standing, _standing_ ; unfurling to her fullest height with a grace you could only identify with the superhuman, the supernatural.

The celestial.

Not Aphrodite, but perhaps Athena. A sharp-eyed grace.

Yes.

Yes.

It must be Athena or Hera in their sage wickedness; in their proprietary cruelty. Or perhaps she is Eris, but this is meaningless, isn't it? Must there forever be our clamoring for validation in the mythic? She is beautiful.

Sublime.

And she will dwarf Yuri- _chi_ ; this is meaningless. Fingers outstretched; fingertips whisper on cheeks.

Hers.

Mine.

"M-mom, this's... This feels so fucking _weird_." It's a whine, isn't it? An act of psychic regression; it is not implosion into jabbering lobotomized infantalism but only an awareness that this should not be.

And here we are.

Here we are.

It _is_ ; it is because it is, and perhaps because irresistibly ineluctably it must be. Because she is beautiful. Because craving is to cradle these things in your palms, to adore and to stroke and to clutch and to grope and to _touch_.

To know.

"Honey, are you afraid?" Closer, closer, closer. It is not to entice fate's wicked violences but only a simple lucid clarity.

She _is_ my mother.

But does it matter?

"I- I guess I just..." And what is the answer? "You're my mom-"

"Ngn. I am." Closer, and closer, and closer.

Her heels are a subdued little whisper on the thick high pile.

Yuki- _tan_ 's touch is conspiracy; is a conviction to muddle anything like sanity's lucid grace.

There is no ease in any thought.

"But I'm also a woman, Ran. You know... Would it be easier to call me _Eri_? Eri- _chan_ , maybe? Eri- _san_? Whatever you'd like. Eri- _sama_?" It is not a coo; the voice is husky, hot, thick, _deep_. A flinty brutal darkness that rasps mercilessly at every fucking sense.

Twangs and tugs and tears and rips and sanity lies like confetti wrought in a blender at your feet.

"M-mom, it's just-"

"Or do you _love_ the transgression in it?"

" _Yukiko- **taaaaan** thinks she does_." Cooing, singsong, from behind me, _beneath_ me. "Ngn... Mistress Orchid's ass tastes _so_ nice."

"I- I want you to lick _mine_ , too. It- it looks like it feels fuckin' _amazing_ , you know?" Yuri- _chi_ , you're...

Inspiration.

Aspirational.

The simpleminded clarity in all of this.

"Oh, really? Well... Yukiko _would_ love it, too. Does Mistress Orchid mind-"

"D-dump the _Mistress Orchid_ shit, all right, Yukiko? This's all just... Just _too_ weird to entertain all the cognitive dissonance-"

"Don't stop ordering Yukiko around, though. Please. Please. Yukiko _wants_ it; she loves your palm." There's hunger.

Urgent. Clutching. Craving.

"Call me _Eri_ , Ran. Do it. Please. I _really_ don't care about hearing anything as respectful as _mom_ from you. Call me a whore. Call me a bitch. Call me a fuck-hole, too, if you want. This is for you as much as for me.

"I've missed you, honey. Darling. _You_. I've missed you so much. We were never good as mother and daughter. But I wonder if we might be better as lovers. Do you want to try?" There are... Are not _tears_. No, no, no.

Only a burbling churning _frenzy_ in the gut.

"Yes. Yes. I would; I really would. I- I'd love it so much." There is still transgression in this, isn't there? "Eri. Eri- _san_ -"

"Ah, I think I like _Eri_ a great deal more."

"Okay." And there is consecration.

The simple truth in _sealed with a kiss_. It isn't the monolithic absolute in Mother And Daughter. No, no. It's not some titillating bit of self-conscious debauchery; it's not to linger upon the incestuous depravities with Serge Gainsbourg idiocy. It only is exactly what it is.

It is this.

It's to know her lips not through the indirect-kiss cliché; not lavished on straining electrifying plastic play-pretend flesh.

Skin upon skin. Slowly, slowly, slowly, it is for time to melt away, for years upon years upon years not merely to dissolve but to be twisted and broken and reforged again in lust's alchemical crucible. It is her fingers slipping oh so patiently over my cheeks; it is for flesh to be dimpled, stroked, adored.

Her hands find purchase in my hair.

Not _pulled_ , but only eased nearer, nearer, nearer. Lips upon lips; the head's archetypal cock and twist and quirk and her mouth upon mine.

A kiss, long and slow and languorous and something that is not lust's urgent clutching impatience but something deliberate. It is to peer into a strange dark cavern whose portal is bathed only in tropical effulgence, so rich and so hot and so _brilliant_ that it does not merely blind in its crudest dimensions but denudes reality of gradation and texture and color and simple presence.

It is to admire the shadows; to peer at the cool gloom, and to savor its coalescence into something irresistibly more elegant, more intricate. It is to touch, and to touch; it is fingers whispering over her shoulders, slowly, slowly, slowly.

Softly, gracefully, beautifully. Her throat dimples under questing fingers; her cheeks sleek and satiny with airbrushed cosmetic perfection. It is artifice, yes, but it is not reality denied, and only accentuated. It is to know another time, and another place; it is for ideals that lurk deep deep deeper than deep in the spirit and the soul to rear up again.

It is high school's first strange stirring years; not when there is this unknowable and elusive development but its _hardening_. When the breasts are not only budding but pluming into their fullest fruitful flower.

It is when the legs are not only gawky but _long_ , shapely with strength and with fat's feminine kiss. When the silhouette begins to gather; when shape has become more certain, and more permanent, and when the body scrawls and coruscates with lust's hardening. It is not new; no, no, no, it is not new. It is only a unique dimension.

It is when time has not simply slumped into the years' senseless passage, when one is indistinguishable from another, from another. The years are still meaningful. Thursday still has relevance as being anything but a _week_ from this Thursday. All is fundamentally novel still. And your fingers, and your hands, also.

Their exploration; their perusal; their quirk and stroke and jerk and their jaunt. The manga and the literature and the films and the television programs in their fleeting phantasmagoria; the unreal reality in the messages that pulsate electronic through the phone and the computer.

The earnest desire.

Even the blue-eyed liar.

Blood, you understand. Blood. When fantasy need not be subordinate to reality, and when reality can flourish now because of this, can take flight unperturbed and untroubled with anything. When there is depth and not only breadth.

When there is pain. Yes. Yes. So much pain. When she is not there.

I will kiss her now for those moments. Those pretty feelings that have been denied and rejected and cast out as surely as the Moneychangers, and the Temple is not perhaps absolutely cleansed and purified in its ideal, but it is _closer_ now. It is so much closer.

The past cannot be resurrected.

This is our deepest trauma. We are life that dwells only in the three-dimensional; and the three-dimensional is also the linear. It would be beautiful, would it not?

Glorious; a sublimity.

Perhaps it would be crueler still to revisit what once was. Would you intervene in your own life? Would you be your better judgment's keeper, or would you only passively taste it, again, and again, and again, gorging yourself on the trauma, on the _heartbreak_?

On the simple anguish in it all?

I do not know; I _cannot_ know.

She is here. I am here. I am not a young girl now. It is time, and time, and still, still, resolutely, she will not age. It is fantastical. It is impossible. It is still sublime. To know her mouth, her lips, her touch.

Eri.

Eri.

Yes.

My mother's name is Eri.

My name is not Eri.

Ran.

Ran.

Slowly, slowly, it is to slip away from her; it is the parting. The fundamental despair in the flesh's alienation, its patient and languid dark-eyed grace. When sight is resurrected; when heat flares into the cheeks.

When the universe is.

It is, because it is. It is, because it must be. Because it cares nothing for us. Those hitchhikers on a pathetic blue marble, or perhaps it is a great star of water. Whatever it is, however glorious, however sublime, however perhaps _unique_ in that endless evolutionary and chemical lottery, fate rolling its dice again and again and again and always coming up snake-eyes but for this _one_ moment, well...

Perhaps it is. And it still does not matter. Perhaps it matters less for this, for there is no one to care. When we are gone, we will be gone, and we will not be missed. There will be no obsessive curators to mourn our passage into the darkness.

While the sun splashes through the windows, and you commune with what once was. When you were younger; when all was novel then. When all was spring, and not summer; when there was not yet an inkling of autumn and winter.

When everything was alive then, however aged. When everything was still in its fullest flower. When your body was not yet perfectly set.

When there was potential in this, even if only in imagination.

When even _he_ was not the liar.

Only blue-eyed.

He was not yet dead to me.

Love her. Yes. In this instant, this mother-love elegance, how can you not simply quiesce to the sentiment that boils and bubbles up? I do not wish to be this thing. This Frankenstein's Monster wrought from the past in its traumas and scars.

I would rather be the Orchid; I would rather be this blossom, rarefied or common.

"You're so beautiful, Ran." Yes. Yes. Her lips caress my name; there is only a simple confounding jumble in this.

Emotion.

Passion.

Lust and craving for her, also.

"You're gorgeous, Eri."

"Ahn... Ahn... A-ah, ah, this's..." And Yuri- _chi_ is, of course, not of this place. She does not dwell in this universe; she _cannot_. Hunger. Clamoring.

Fervor.

Yes.

 _They_ are here. Nothing else; there is no, of course, this shackling ideal named _history_. There is forever a delusion that it can be shrugged away.

It will not.

 _Cannot_ be.

Kiss her; and kiss her; and kiss her. Mom or... No, no, it _is_ only Eri.

Because it is not _with mom_ that you do these things. Right? Right? What even is your voice's ultimately guise, then? What is the meaning and substance and _worth_ in any and all of this? At once, at once, you will know the universe's splintering, its irresistible disintegration. What once was not.

What was not will be.

Progress.

This is our fiction. Our deepest delusion.

"This's _so_ fucking amazing!" Yuri- _chi_ 's voice more an articulated squeal now; heaving, shuddering, fingers raking at Yukiko's shoulders, spine arching, eyes cast up to the ceiling in its great vaulting shadow-dappled sprawl.

Tits quiver and flare with breath, bubbling up in grandiose shuddering marshmallow effusion from the bustier. Her body is a living convulsion, endless, merciless, simply _devoured_ with the delirium rearing up from Yuki- _tan_ 's tongue's endless squelching passage.

"O-oh, oh, fuck, fuck, I- I'm gonna... I'm gonna come _again_. I- I never... N-nobody's _ever_ touched me like this before. M-my ass feels so fuckin' _amazing_." Cooing and squalling and there's only a simple groping swivel-eyes sexual insanity.

More more more more.

"Ngn... Do you really love it _so_ much, Yuri- _himei_? Yukiko's tongue is nice for Yuri- _himei_?" Yukiko imploring that adoration, that _fulfillment_ in another's bliss.

"S-shit, shit, yeah, yeah-"

"Yuri- _himei_ 's ass tastes _so_ sweet. It's obvious Yuri- _himei_ 's a virgin there."

"Yeah, yeah, I am. I am. I- I can't believe... Can't fucking _believe_ it's this amazing." Twisting, coiling, and...

And Eri's eyes more than transfix now.

"Would you like to play as I'd imagined, Ran?" With such...

The word is _knowing_ , ain't it?

Yes, yes, yes.

The smile torments.

Spears.

"I- I don't exactly _know_ what you meant-"

"Well, isn't it obvious? I know that you've already had _quite_ a bit of fun with Yukiko, but maybe not like _this_. And, ah, I've never really tasted _your_ girlfriend. Unless you've gotten proprietary."

"I'm not a hypocrite." With a palm cradling my left breast. "I, ah, I think... Well..."

"A bit of swapping, maybe-"

"Ahn! Yeah, yeah, _yeah_! F-fuck, fuck, dammit all, Yukiko, it feels so fuckin' amazing! Yeah! Yeah!" Yuri- _chi_ wailing, heaving.

Yukiko's long lovely fingers simply _spear_ , twist, wriggle, writhe; impale her; tuck themselves beside the root, swaying and pitching with a delirious wet sodden squelch, a delirious confluence with her tongue. With another hand simply _cradling_ the plastic flesh in its craving groping ravening _need_.

It isn't a stroke; fingers merely _tingle_. A sense of empathy in the palpable.

Eri's hands there now, also, _cinched_ around my own plastic madness.

"Feel this thing. It's strange, isn't it? How science is only a surrogate magic?"

"E-Eri, it... It feels..." Jaw shivering, clenched taut; eyes melting down into a glazed over frenzy. "I- I don't _care_ how fake it- aaah!" And it's just...

Withdrawn.

Cast out of Paradise; denied that perfected wisdom. Cruelty. Cruelty.

"Eri, Eri, what the _**fuck**_?!"

"What? This thing?" Clasping it in her long slim fingers. "It's just a pathetic counterfeit, you know. It's as _real_ as the the joy you have in a drunk. It's all just fiction; it's all just plastic chemistry. Fuck _that_." It's dogmatic.

Crazed. Balancing that sumptuous better-living-through-chemistry constellation of neurologic madnesses on a sleek soft palm.

"W-well, pardon _me_ for being happy about having my rubber cock with _flesh_ feeling-"

"Ran, Ran, you're not even _listening_ to me. To your friend. Your lo-"

"I'm fucking _coming_! I'm coming from everywhere but my titties! Fuck, fuck, _**fuck**_!" Insanity; and now, now, hands are simply _clapped_ on her breasts' heavy marshmallow plumpness. "I- I'm- I'm goin' fuckin' crazy!" Yes, yes, yes.

And it's...

It's something _incredible_.

Convulsive; a humongous swarm simply _geysering_ from the plastic cock in its still straining hunger; once, and again, and again, and again, and it's for her eyes merely to tumble back beneath lashes that could probably lavish some lovely figment of modesty on a planet.

"Oh..."

"Yuri- _himei_ came _**sooo**_ much. Did it feel so good? Yuri- _himei_ 's all happy with Yukiko-"

"M-m-marry me. Marry me." Treachery.

Infidelity.

"J-just kidding, O-Orchid, or- or Ran, or... What- what do you-"

"Ran, Yuri- _chi_."

"Ngn... Ran, Ran, it's so good. It's so good. N-not like you, but, like, it's- it's _really_ good." Eyes quivering and dewy with every _caress_. "Ngn... She- she gave me an- an _all-over_ orgasm. 's so fuckin' good-"

"Let's swap, shall we, Ran?" And now, now, it is to know the diabolic eldritch dogma lurking behind Eri's eyes, in the voice's thick wet tranquility. "But, ah, first, I've _quite_ the gift for you. If you're interested."

"Interested in _what_?"

"Come on, Ran. Don't be like _that_ ; don't be so _leery_. Trust Eri- _chi_ , won't you?" It's perverse, isn't it, that oh so lovely chirrup and sigh, that cooing keening _pretension_ of breathy girlish delicacy.

It's only a deeper harder relief for the voice's flinty sharpness.

"D-dammit, Eri-"

"Well? Or do you need even _more_ persuasion?"

"I- I don't exactly know _what_ the hell you're talking about-"

"Don't be so _presumptuous_ , imagining that it's something wicked. You see, well, I _do_ have a bit of my own exoticisms. Maybe not _technology_. But technology is just more democratic magic." With eyes darker than black now; strange, oh so fucking unreal.

And there's an inscrutable stillness; at once, at once, it's to know a perfect quietude. Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes huge and beseeching and there's a genuflecting deference in Yuki- _tan_ 's poise.

"A-ahn, um, um, Yukiko, I- I mean, y'know, I didn't mean you should stop-"

"Oh, but she's just _waiting_. Right, Yukiko- _tan_?" Eri's...

Wicked.

Absolutely. Profoundly. A supreme self-satisfaction in her diablerie. It's an inscrutable conviction. Yuki- _tan_ standing now.

"A-ah, ah, what the hell? Please, please, I _really_ want s'more, all right?" Yuri- _chi_ pleading.

And it's...

It's so strange. Eri's fingers outstretched now; easing oh so slowly, ploddingly, _patiently_ between my thighs. Teasing; a languorous meander up and down and up and down, tormenting the flesh in its borderlands between fabric and skin.

"Eri, Eri, I-"

"Do you want it? Do you want me to touch you, Ran- _chan_?" Closer, closer. It's to know the simple sumptuous oppression in her presence.

Her shadow _looms_.

"Yeah! Yes, yes, _yes_ -"

"All right. But I have a surprise for you. It's for both you _aaaand_ Yuri- _chan_. I'm sure you'll love it. Don't be afraid, though, all right?"

"A-afraid-"

"Afraid. Believe me, Yukiko- _tan_ knows what I'm talking about. Don't you, Yukiko- _tan_?"

"Uh- _huh_." Standing there in a beatific tranquility, eyes downcast and still, still, not what you could call _averted_. A coquettish glance up, flitting between us.

Knees tremble.

"Ngn... Eri- _chenchei_ , you're so cruel, dragging this out-" A whine, a whine, oh so adorable.

"An _excellent_ choice of words, Yukiko- _tan_." And, finally, finally, finally, rearing up, it's... It's _there_. Her fingers. Eyes flare open huger, huger, huger; an ambition to swallow the universe in its infinitum.

A stroke.

The first. The first. Two fingers gathered there; simply _huddled_ along the lips clasped closed, straining with a merciless palpitating hunger. Even this is sexual madness, eyes more than only _glazed_. Smeared with lacquer along generations, rejuvenated for billions and billions and billions of years condensed into a mere instant.

"A-ah, ah, oh, fuck, Eri, Eri, Eri, I- I'm..." Even this. Even this.

Something _gathering_.

Straining.

 _Growing_.

"I'm gonna _come_!" Rubbery lips and quavering knees and trembling fingers. "I'm gonna come-"

" _Something_ is coming, Ran. There's really _no_ ambiguity about that." And it's... It's just... "Look down, honey. Come on; come on. You need to _look **down**_." Yes. Yes. Yes, and...

And it's...

Impossible.

Absolutely fucking _impossible_. An awareness of something that should not be; that must not be. That _is_. Flesh conjured from endless textureless nihil; growing, gathering, long and sleek and lush and gracefully upturned, a canting craning bowing grace. The head has already begun to build itself, will and meat and blood and...

And it shouldn't be.

Thick. A helmeted heavy brilliance; a dusky grace flowering into an achingly beautiful sculpted artistry. It's a man's sole redeeming beauty; one rarefied bit of the glorious, of the lovely, a rarefied orchid in a hydnora garden.

"Eri, Eri, w-what the hell is this-"

"Like I said, darling. Technology is democratic magic. But I am _not_ democratic in my values. It's... Sorcery, you know. As you can see." Gathering; thicker; thicker. Stouter than even the fucking _dildo_. An impossibility, isn't it?

"W-what, it's, but..." And it doesn't simply sprout with fanciful porno manga formula from the clitoris; that lovely bead still lurks there, _tucked_ over its generous heavy shaft. Lower; a bit lower. It's something...

"It's so beautiful." A duality; the woman and the man. Or perhaps only the feminine and the masculine. The cock is _sublime_. Eight inches, probably, in its length; a girth that's conceived for a woman's cravings, and not a man's simpleminded overcompensating clamoring for validation.

It's beautiful.

"It's so gorgeous, Ran. Holy _shit_ , that's fuckin' awesome. That's, like, that's a _real_ one, right? 's just..." Yuki- _tan_ resolutely quiet; Yuri- _chi_ is not. Simply tumbling to her knees with a gawping wheeling awe; an incredulity. "D-do me next. Do me next. Do _me_ next-"

"It's interesting that you'd say that, Yuri- _chan_." And Eri, she's... "Would you like to see something _**veeery**_ unique?" Her fingers pluck, stroke, and...

And there's a _brush_ over her belly.

The skirt is no longer so sleek in its taut cradling embrace around her hips.

A bulk rears up, _up_.

"Nya! Eri- _chenchei_ , you've finally let it _free_! Ah, ah, ahn, Yukiko- _tan_ loves it. She does _so_ fucking much-"

"Ah, ah, _ah_ , Yukiko- _tan_." Eri's finger upraised; one of them. A peremptory _command_. "It's not _yours_ right now. Ngn... Let's _see_. Didn't you want to play a game with me, Yuri- _chan_?" Closer, and closer, and there's...

There is a question.

A multiplicity; one becomes fifty, becomes twenty trillion.

They are largely _how_?

Perhaps a _why_?

And a _how long_?

"B-but, Eri, uh, um..." And this is my yammering, stammering, simple _befuddlement_. "I- I mean, how- how does it _work_ -"

"Oh, I think you must have _some_ idea of how they work. You've been with boys, haven't you, Ran- _chan_?" Her eyes wicked; a sharp delicious glint simply delights. Adore her.

Loathe her.

"That's- it's _really_ just like that? So fucking simple?" So to speak. "D-does it-"

"Oh, it _does_. In amounts you wouldn't _believe_. It's, ah... Well, you're a better detective than the Detective Boy. Tell me-"

" _You_. Yukiko doesn't have a _male_ lover-"

"Oh, that's not true-"

"W-what I mean is that... Her _one_ lover is _you_ , mom... Ah, Eri. _You're_ the one with the gallons of jizz she's been filling herself with. And- and Haibara?" With incredulity.

"Ngn... I'm _so_ glad you figured out that one, darling." Her smile is not merely _shit-eating_. It's a fucking caprophagic buffet. "It's, ah, very lovely, isn't it-"

"Will mine, ah... You mean..." It's something _surrealer_ than surreal.

To have...

"I've been fucking and tasting and-"

"Oh, yes. You've had _quite_ a bit of my, ah, what's that achingly crude phrase? Sloppy seconds. And fiftieths. Haibara. Ayumi- _chan_. They're all so beautiful. I've even, well, how should I say this? I've helped myself to Mitsuhiko and that _beautifully_ -built Genta boy, too.

"Didn't _he_ grow up? And isn't Mitsuhiko the loveliest sissy?"

"Pedophile." How can you not?

"I _am_ Japanese, honey. Now, well... Are you _sure_ you'd love one of these getting in your way, Yuri- _chan_? Wouldn't you love for my daughter to watch you being _fucked_? For Ran to admire it? There's always something... Viscerally depraved in it, isn't it?

"It isn't that _masculine_ idea of cuckolding. Or whatever you'd call it. It's just... It's to see someone else with your lover. It's not for everyone. I know that. It's humiliating. It's shameful. And somehow, somehow, it's just...

"So intense. I started to _love_ it when I was with your father, Ran. I'd watch him fuck other women. It would drive me insane. The first time, it was... It was because I _hated_ him. Because I wanted to torture myself."

Kiss her.

Kiss her.

With lips slipping together.

With her fingers twisting through my hair.

Her tongue.

Its poisonous wisdoms.

"But it... It wasn't only _that_. I hated him already. I thought, _I'll be able to sign the papers after this_. So I told him, Let's have a threesome. Together. With another woman. What a _long_ tongue he has. This was about twelve years ago.

"We went out to a hotel with her. Some woman we picked up in a club. And I... I couldn't fuck him during it. I was so _appalled_ by him. But I couldn't stop touching myself. I didn't want _him_ to touch me. I just wanted to watch.

"And watch. And watch. It drives me crazy now. Watching Yukiko being _fucked_ ; watching her being eaten. Watching her being pulled open and just... Just _devoured_. And she loves it, also, watching _me_ fuck other women.

"Other men. You've never really known debauchery 'til you've just stared while a beautiful woman's being gangbanged. I don't mean it to be crude. But men are only there as toys to be played with. Most women, also." Slow, syrupy.

Insane.

"I don't think I'll want _that_ with Yuri-"

"Of course not. You're not as _sick_ as your father and I are. I'm sorry that I never really had the courage to tell you about our relationship. But, well, does it matter now?"

No.

No.

It _can't_.

"Nya! Ran- _sama_ , won't you show Yuki- _tan_ just how much you like _her_?" Closer, closer, a sinuous swaying elegance.

A vulpine exhortation; and Eri's...

Well, there's only predation. Hunger.

"And you, Yuri- _chan_ , you don't mind, ah, if the Courtroom's Queen shows _you_ something, I hope. Do you?" Separation.

Realities twist apart.

It's not possible; it shouldn't be.

It is.

"Yuki- _tan_ is just _**filled**_ with Eri- _chenchei_ 's jizz. What hole do you want? 'cause Yuki- _tan_ is just _**flooded**_! You'll drown. My pussy's _especially_ filled with it today. You can go as _long_ as you want if it's anything like Eri- _chenchei_ 's, you know.

"She just has _no_ limit at all. She can fill Yuki- _tan_ 'til she more than overflows. Do you wanna start with her mouth-pussy?" Jaw tumbling open; Yuki- _tan_ not only... Only imploring, but simply genuflecting.

Palms clapped on my knees.

"It's _so_ soft. Yuki- _tan_ 's throat." Eyes twisting up.

The blue-eyed liar's.

And still, still.

"I- I want to fucking _punish_ you for your son, Yukiko. I'm- I'm sick of the _Yuki- **tan**_ shit. You deserve to be punished for it. Don't you want that?" Lust.

Craving.

"A-ah, oh, oh, Eri. Eri. Y-you're, like, fulfilling _so_ many fantasies." Yuri- _chi_ 's is a supreme insanity. Her eyes quiver; her jaw has simply tumbled open. "O-oh, oh, oh, _fuck_ , I've been wanting this since- since I was about, um, _seven_.

"Just... I didn't think you'd have _that_ thing. 's fucking incredible. I... Ran, are you really really _**really**_ super-super-ultra-sure it's okay? 'cause- 'cause I won't be jealous if you do with, um, with Yukiko, but-"

"I want to see." And it's a simple truth.

Yes.

To know.

To _gorge_ myself on this rarefied overripe fruit.

"Y-you're... Ngn... Y-you're seriously, l-like..." And there is only the simple awe at a glimpse of _this_. Of flesh's communion with flesh.

Eri's simple conviction.

"I _think_ Ran has decided. Don't you, Yuri- _chan_? What a _beautiful_ young girl you are. Are you _sure_ it's all right? An old lady like _me_?" A sumptuous wickedness; a wanton and brutal cruelty in this. In long fine fingers brushed over Yuri- _chi_ 's cheeks.

In one palm, and then a second, _slithering_ over soft creamy skin. In the nails like garnet-stained talons rearing up, up, up, twisting and tangling through hair that could only be likened with Arabic poetry to a scorpion's shimmering husk in its obsidian grace.

She is entrancing. And Yukiko's fingers, also, tease and stroke and pluck and adore; it's a duality in lust's every geometry. In skin and skin.

"Ngn... Don't just ignore Yukiko- _tan_ , please, Ran- _saamaaaa_. Don't be mean to Yukiko- _tan_. Don't just _ignore_ her; don't be blind to her." The beauty.

The grace and allure in this; in the heavy luscious soft breasts that simply _fall_ from the qipao's starkly carved parody of a neckline. It's not the neck; it implodes, tumbles down down down down in velvet dusky sublimity. It's...

It's to dwell between them.

The strangest living experiential ethnography.

The Swingers' society.

And I am now living amongst them like some nineteenth-century archetype.

You must join them.

You must _taste_ their rarefied cuisine.

Its luscious fruit.

"Ahn... Don't ignore Yukiko _-tan_ -"

"B-believe me, I'm... I'm not. I wish I had _two_ pairs of eyes-"

"Kya! _That_ would just be delicious. Ran- _saamaaa_ , do you... Do you wanna watch Eri- _chenchei_ a bit? Yukiko- _tan_ doesn't mind. She'll show you something _delicious_ if you wanna have your cuck- ah, cake, _and_ eat it, too." Beautiful.

Everything.

Dreamy and crazed and it's... It's Yuri- _chi_ 's every morsel of unease cast away; it's to know their bodies entangled now, twisting together, Eri's thigh _slipped_ between Yuri- _chi_ 's, and... And, fuck, fuck, _**fuck**_. Cast away the trite and meaningless bits of honorifics.

The teasing.

The everything.

Eri and Yuri.

The delirium in this; in Eri's hair still bound in its bitchy arch bun, _speared_ with the chopsticks whose tassels sway with a languid scarlet grace. A kiss; a kiss. It's to know fantasy fulfilled, finally, finally, finally, its endlessly cruelly deferred idol-veneration given guise.

But it is not this at all.

"A-ah, Eri, Eri, I... I always wanted to meet you, y'know?" While Eri's lips introduce themselves to _every_ inch; while Yuri's fine throat is cherished; while her collarbone in its graceful dips and divots are adored and venerated. "It's just... I touch myself all the time thinkin' about you. An'- an' I always wondered if you had a daughter.

"I wanned to meet her. I... D-dammit, how can my fantasies just- just come _true_? You an' your daughter an' Kudō Yukiko in _one_ day? I'm dead, right? If I am, don't wake me up an' tell me. S-seriously, 's just...

"More than I can... Can _take_. I'm gonna come; I'm gonna come."

"My daughter will just be _so_ jealous to listen to you creaming your brains out like that, you know, Yuri- _chan_? You're going to need to apologize to her for _hours_ ; maybe _**days**_ -"

"Nya!" Mewling; keening; darkening _thickening_ into a sticky leaden gasp. "B-but she said-"

"I don't want an apology." It's true, isn't it? It's not proprietariness' thick lathering bile; only a hunger deeper than _deep_. "I just want to fuck you 'til your brains drool out of your ears, Yuri- _chi_. I- I don't think I have _your_ perversion. I just want to watch you fuck, too. I've never really _seen_ a woman fuck another woman like this, and...

"And..." And _something_ , something, something, it's...

Language has melted away into a dreamy fantastical half-memory.

It's something... Something fucking _incredible_.

A warmth.

It's now not merely technology's phantasmagorical likenesses. It's flesh in its nearest suggestion of the simple _truth_. It's the body; it's _meat_ ; it's blood and it's...

It could be _mistaken_ for a fucking bone.

It is not.

Harder than steel.

Sterner than fucking _ceramic_.

Straining; trembling; clamoring for outlet. A visceral compulsion to touch; to gorge yourself on onanism that's nothing so patient, so delicate, so self-abnegating in its self-indulgence. And at once, at once, it's a scream rearing up in a great burbling plume from lips that have not merely succumbed to heaving convulsive tremors but just _dissolved_.

Everything.

A kiss.

One, one, _one_ kiss.

Everything.

The world condenses there.

Her body is here; Yukiko's and... And there is a softness, a lavish wet grace, and there is only an epiphany that technology is technology. It is not magic; it is not the reality. It's not... It's not the _authenticity_ now in her tongue lolling out.

In her breath's mischievous quiver with a soft trilling little giggle.

"Yukiko, Yukiko-"

"Aren't Yukiko- _tan_ 's lips the _softest_? They're hers, you know; not surgery. Uh, uh, _uh_." With her adoration spilling up, slopping not merely through the ears but _every_ sense. The sensual perfection in this.

In another kiss; in another.

In...

"A-ah, Eri, Eri, Eri, I... I want you to fuck me. Fuck me. P-please, please. It's okay, right, Ran?" Would she obey even if anguish were to roar through the breast?

"Yeah. It's- it's fine, Yuri-"

"T-thank you. 'cause, I... I like you; I wanna date you. I just... W-when am I gonna have the chance to... To do this?" While knees wilt; while the mattress in its fucking _acreages_ is no longer merely adornment in somber gray-draped elegance, but savors its true utility. In Yuri not slipping across it with coquettish elegance but _sprawled_ now.

Eri's knee clasped between her thighs; the skirt's been cast away, the bustier _pleading_ to be slackened. It isn't.

It's only Eri's nimble fingers plucking gingerly with such knowing ease at the chest panel's laces. Now, now, _now_ , there is freedom.

Is symmetry.

Is heavy plump flesh _spilling_ out in grandiose pageantry, in nipples scribing a crazed quick flit, up and down and up and down. In peachy silver-dollar areolae.

Hunger.

"Ah, ah, Eri- Eri!" Squalling; trembling; Eri's face just _vanishes_ , the lenses a cool twinkling glint and they pour together. Perfection.

Beauty in feminine grace and Yukiko's mouth is something delicate, languorous, patient, lips swept over the peak; fingers twist around its base.

And it's duality; it's delirium in that hungering mouth simply slipping open of its own volition; it's a graze along that straining clamoring pearl.

It's...

It's everything.

Toes tremble.

Jaw clenched.

"O-oh, oh, Yukiko, that's... That's so fucking _incredible_. I-"

"Gonna come _aaaalready_ , Ran- _sama_? Yukiko- _tan_ doesn't mind. Do you wanna paint her face again? 'cause there's _so_ much there? Or, oh, oh, oh, you'll _looove_ this, I think. Right? Right?" Is it possible to mince and flounce and _gambol_ on your knees?

It must be.

It must.

Trembling; spine arching; and there's only the elemental porno perfection in tits... Fuck, fuck, fuck, this is the only word that could ever aspire to capture their geometric reality.

They are not _breasts_.

It's _tits_.

Titties.

Humongous fucking _torpedoes_. Slipped around it; an awareness that their weight is being _hefted_ up, her body twisting and warping itself to accommodate their simple bulk, and...

And it's _vanishing_ between them.

Immense.

Prodigious.

"Ngn... Yukiko- _tan_ still can't believe Eri- _chenchei_ 's an' Ran- _sama_ 's titties are even _bigger_ than hers. It's not fair; it's _nooooot_ fair. Ayumi- _tan_ 's, too. They're so so so _**so**_ big. She's all insecure; but at least Yuri- _himei_ 's are just _big_.

"Big big big-"

"You're goddamn right they are." Eri's voice a heavy wet affirmation from between them.

And there's only the delectation in her knee _wedged_ into that sumptuous dark delta; in fabric-curtained strength ground and twisted and she's being ridden while she invades; the stockings are blackening more, more, more, lambent with sweat and _smeared_ with Yuri's lust, and...

And it's incredible. Eri's spine twisted, body bowed, tongue a sticky quick flit and flicker over Yuri's tits, and...

And there's...

"You should _definitely_ not be wearing your skirt, Eri." This is my conviction. Yukiko not abandoned; no, no, no. It's only a conviction. _Traipsing_ to her; fingers find purchase on the zipper, the pencil skirt simply _twisted_ away.

Her jacket prised from lean athletic shoulders.

"Aren't _you_ daring, Ran?" Eri's eyes brutal in their hot animal glint from behind the lenses.

"What about _this_?" With Yuri's hands upraised; with fingers clutching at the blouse's creamy ivory buttons. One slipped from its purchase; another; another; another.

Fabric bifurcated, spilling open, Eri's belly tighter, leaner, _perfecter_ than even mine.

"Ngn... I'm a little jealous, Eri. You have a better body that _I_ do-"

"Ah, ah, _ah_ , Ran. I wouldn't say that. I just need to _harden_ myself. It's an obsession. I think I work out _way_ too much, really. I'd rather have that young _tight_ softness. Ngn... Look at your body; look at mine-"

"I wanna die! I feel so _fat_!" And still, still, it's only Yuri's plea for _tinier_ deaths. "You're all fuckin' _supermodels_ -"

"And _you_ , darling, could be a gravure model so _easily_." Eri's fingertip brush between the breasts' luscious succulent abundance. "I wouldn't mind a body like yours, darling. Don't be so _insecure_. You're, ah..."

"Fluffy." This is my conviction; this is my _will_.

"Yes. _Fluffy_. I like that word. It just... You have no _idea_ how good a soft girl like you feels. The muscle can get a little tiring, honestly. And you have the _prettiest_ legs. These long long _long_ legs." And it's...

It's incredible.

A quick _jerk_ , and they're just wrenched up to Yuri's chest, knees wet against sweat-slick tits. A coo; a squeal.

"A-ahn! O-oh, fuck-"

"What a _beautiful_ pussy you have, too. I definitely _know_ this is a gorgeous pussy; you even have _hair_. It almost feels quaint. It gets in the way; I don't like it. But I love _seeing_ it." Eri's just...

There.

Her ass in its fine thickly clefted relief, lavish, sumptuous, _succulent_ , a dazzling roundness firm and still oh so deliriously _**soft**_ ; stockings cradle shapely thighs, bite into fat's faintest _kiss_ in their diabolic black; garters coil trail _tumble_ down, cinching tearing in lovely verticality through them, also.

Perfection.

And...

"Admiring mommy's pussy?" It's something boisterous in its demented saw-toothed unhinged insouciance, isn't it? A glance cast over her shoulder. "It's pretty, isn't it? I've always thought I have a _very_ pretty pussy.

"I don't mind if you look a little closer." And, well, how can you not? While she's just... Just _falling_ between Yuri's thighs.

While _Yuri_ 's is splayed with an unpretentious sodden livid _hunger_. While we have become a tangle of breasts and hair and thighs and legs and cheeks flushed and eyes darkened **blackened**.

While there is...

Is this.

Yes.

"It _is_ pretty, Eri. Wow. It- it really is." Not merely bare; simply perfectly lusciously _glabrous_. The lips plump and heavily clefted and...

And _it_ is there.

Glimpsed from strange vantages.

Mine, in its essence.

"Hey! Yours is thicker than _mine_ , Eri. Are you _that_ jealous-"

"Shhh. I just... Your mom is a little insecure with age. Just deal with. It's maybe a little _too_ big. I hope you won't mind, Yuri- _chan_." Yuri's eyes betray nothing like unease with it.

"Ngn... I'm cool with it. M-my dildo's pretty big, honestly. An', um, Ran fucked me with the- the, like, um, what, _cyber_ -dildo _inside_ me, too. It was... It was _so_ weird; it was so fuckin' _great_. I... I didn't think it'd fit-"

"Thank you for readying her, Ran. How _sweet_ you are." It's a delirium, a delectation, to admire the flesh; the sloppy lust-weeping fervor; the lips slackened and opened and richly reddened with hunger and... And there is jealousy.

Not the spurned lover's sharp tortured shock but only the diner admiring another's meal wreathed in its enchanting fragrant steam. There is a need to touch, to adore.

And there is Eri's, also, plump and _slick_ , a shimmering faintly greasy lust curtaining her.

"Ngn... Don't ignore _Yukiko- **tan**_ , Ran- _saaamaaaa_." And she is there; again, again, palms cradling the _tremendous_ plump quivering flesh in its marshmallow Himalayas.

Its delirium.

"Ah, ah, ah, I- I'm not _ignoring_ you-"

"You should see us in profile, Ran. Won't you? I'll just... I'll just feel all the _lovelier_ about this while I fuck your girlfriend, and while _mine_ teases you with her _very_ generous and plump titties. They're not only breasts. Not just _tits_. They're _**colossal**_ , aren't they? Too bad she's not as tall as we are; they'd be even _bigger_ than ours." Yes. Yes. Yes.

And there is profile.

There is hair; is Yuri's shimmering around her cheeks, matted with sweat. Glazed eyes cast up at Eri; flitting to mine.

"Ngn... Ran, this feels- this feels _so_ fuckin' naughty. I- I can't fucking _believe_ this. Your- your mom's about to fuck me. With- with some kind of magical _cock_ ; it's real. And you have one, too, and... And it's just _amazing_. I wanna die; I wanna die 'cause I know my life really _can't_ get better than this-"

"Ah, ah, _ah_ , darling. Don't insult Ran's mother by saying _that_. You _are_ going to be her girlfriend, after all." Clearly. Clearly.

"I- I didn't mean it like _that_! It's just- it's- it's the _best_ fuckin' two days I've ever ever ever _**ever**_ had! I- I was so sick of this crap _yesterday_ before Ran walked into that crappy family restaurant. An' now I don't...

"Ah! Ah! Eri, c'mon, _please_! I want Ran to know _just_ how much of a slut I wanna be for _her_. Make me all slutty; mess me _up_. Y-you can't get me pregnant, right?" A blink sweeps lashes with a quick stripe down over her cheeks.

Once.

Again.

"No, no. I- I'm _very_ sure that I can't." And there is still a nebulous _I think_ to be intuited in this. "I'm really pretty sure that I can't. I'll pay, ah, if something _happens_. Or maybe you'd like having my baby.

"Wouldn't that be nice-"

"M-maybe I wanna pretend I will. It's kinda this... This nasty fantasy I have. Bein' _that_ depraved an' junk. Nngn... I'm goin' _crazy_. Ran, Ran, Ran, _maaake_ Eri fuck me. Make her bang me. M-make her do me right fucking _now_!

"I wanna go even _more_ insane! Fuck me raw, Eri- _sensei_! C'mon; c'mon. Please, please, please! Fuck me raw; fill me the fuck _up_!" Warbling; wailing; and high high high heels limn a sharp racing stroke through the hot sodden air, perfumed only with femininity's perfection.

Its perfected grace.

And how can you refuse?

"You really _should_ , Eri. Still wearing your hair with that bitchy fucking bun. When do you even let it down, Rapunzel?"

"Wouldn't _you_ like to know, Ran." And there's only... Only awe.

Peering into that dark place between her thighs.

Not from _your_ vantage.

Not from _hers_.

It's...

It's never been known. No, no, no. Nothing like _this_. While Yukiko's eyes are transfixed, also, in her genuflection. While there's only a great chorus of stares.

This is not porno's banality; not its prepackaged chemical absolutes. Not its simpleminded surrender to direction, to the _audience_ 's play-pretend voyeurism.

It is not fictive dampness in dry-gulch apathy.

It is not cocks straining into relief for their sublimated homoeroticism.

It is not the universe wrought around the facial.

It's _nothing_ so bland.

It's desire; legitimate; authentic.

It is not to capture fetishism in its absolutes, its imperfect perfections.

It is skin.

It is flesh.

It is blood.

Bone.

Fat.

Meat.

Hunger.

Ravening and crazed and clutching and groping and it's her body, and mine, and hers, and hers, and... And Eri is simply _slipping_ that plump bloated peak against craving lips.

A wet satin caress.

Yuri's lips fall open; her eyes tumble closed; lashes whisper with a fragile fitful grace on cheeks carnation now with a flush bubbling up, up, up.

"Ahn... O-oh, oh, so _that's_ what it feels like _raw_? W-wow. It... It _is_ kinda different. Mostly 'cause you're so _huge_ , Eri. Eri. E-Eri, I- ahn!"

A warble.

A _wail_.

Transfixed.

All of us.

Absolutely _riveted_ to this. It is a cliché. We may as well be welded. Brazed. Simply _stitched_ into this; everyone at once. Because it is beautiful in its elegances; in its feminine sublime; in the hips that stir nearer and nearer to hips; in Eri's long lean arms, muscular, sleek, with lissome fingers laced around Yuri's creamy shoulders.

With her breasts' sumptuous fall, still cradled in a bra that's little more than a perfunctory bit of fabric, a shelf to profane its very essence, nipples bared. It is support without modesty; it is delectable. All is a mesmeric carnal feast.

And it's...

It's the first _stroke_.

Finally, finally, finding purchase between the plump lush lips crested in taut knotted black curls, shimmering and dewy in their tangled gardens with sweat, with lust, with _famishment_.

She is beautiful. So so so beautiful. The head brushed against its cradling heat, and finally, finally, there is only that ineffable unknowable divine _darkness_ , the fuchsia concentricities that simply melt obligingly into burgundy, and down down down into black.

Eyes immense and consumed with this.

Deeper.

Deeper.

A soft patient breath from Eri's pursed lips.

"You're- you're so fucking _big_! It's- it's so soft an' so hard an' so _nice_. Oh, oh, oh, this's... This's so _great_!" With knees no longer clamped on her tits, but only splayed apart, thighs trembling, hips clamoring for the...

The death of sight.

For the painterly grace in their bodies converging.

Together.

Together.

 _Melting_ into Yuri.

"A-ahn... Ah! Ah!" With eyes not glazed but simply _hardened_. A chiseled crazed carnal focus, the universe simply polarized around this perfection now.

Hips converge.

And...

"A-ah, oh, oh, _oh_ , it's- it's so fucking deep. You're inside me. You're- you're hitting that _place_ in me. M-my cervix, right? Like Ran. It's- it's so fucking great. You're just- you're just resting against my cervix.

"You'll all in me, aren't you?" Pleading.

Beseeching.

It _must_ be so.

"Yes. Yes. I am. I am, Yuri- _chan_. What a beautiful girl you are. Look at you." And she is; and _Eri_ is.

Glorious.

This is the word.

Divine.

"You're- it feels so _hot_ in you, Yuri- _chan_. It's... It's delicious. A virgin pussy like this; or- or _almost_ , anyway. You're just... You're so _wet_ ; so different than other girls. And other girls are so different from you.

"You've never had a boy come inside you, have you, Yuri- _chan_?"

"An' I ain't _gonna_." With swivel-eyed fanaticism. "I- I've decided that I am _never_ gonna waste my time on a boy again. The only reason I ever wanned one was _cock_ ; an' if a _girl_ can have one, that's... That's _so_ fuckin' sweet.

"And... Ah, Ran, Ran, I... I wanna suck yours, too-"

"Hey! That's _mine_. And double-penetration is _not_ for beginners, Yuri- _himei_. Trust Yukiko- _tan_ about that." A delirious soft sweet coo from the genuflecting Queen of The Screen.

An embarrassment of sensual royalty.

The Courtroom.

The Screen.

The Universe.

Ah, ah, ah, what delectable regality it is.

"That's _right_ , Yuri- _chan_. You... Oh, oh, can- do you mind if I start moving, honey?" Mom's just...

There.

Buried.

 _Submerged_.

"Y-you need to ask _me_? T-the last guy I did just... Did it-"

"That's very rude. Didn't my _daughter_ ask?"

"W-well, yeah, but... I mean... Fuck me!" This is the conviction; this is the simple absolute and inviolate truth. Her command is irresistible.

 _Who_ would resist it?

"When you're, like, _balls-deep_ in me-"

"If I had them, anyway." Eri's murmur a pensive little eddying in voice through the ears.

"I- I kinda wish you did. I think they'd be big an' soft an'- an' stuff, but... Nya! Push it in me; don't do it _gently_. I- I mean, like, Ran an' me an'- an' maybe you an' me an' Yukiko an'... What was I saying? J-just, um, we've got a _lot_ of time.

"I want you to fuckin' _bang_ me. Rail me. Pound me. Do it; do it. I- I don't care if you come in five seconds; I'll come in _two_ -"

"Oh, believe me, darling, I would _love_ to come already. But I'm not that selfish. Y-you're... You're _very_ tight. Very, very, _**very**_ hot. Oh. Oh. If you really want it like that, then you won't have the _concentration_ for anything but my cock-"

"Doitdoitdoitdoitdoitdoit." This is inviolable, isn't it?

And it's immediate.

Not a delicate escalation; it's a violence, crushing, frenzied. It's an asteroid _hammering_ into Eurasia.

It's wet, sodden, stained with lust; at once, at once, it's their bodies in a demented theatrical twist together, pounding crashing _slapping_. Hips upon hips; bodies and bodies and bodies and... And it's incredible.

Soft lissome arms wound around Eri's shoulders, dragging her closer, closer.

Breasts upon breasts.

Flesh.

Ravening _need_.

"Yeah! Yeah!" Cooing, squalling, the heels upraised, thighs _splayed_ split open around my mother's curvaceous hips, and it's just...

It's for the universe to melt into them. A sensuality that's not conceived for the spectator's indulgence; it's Yuri's head thrown into the mattress and tumbling back with chin jabbing into the gathered pooled flesh to clamor for Eri's eyes, for her lips.

A kiss; a kiss; sticky and succulent and relentless and merciless and bruising and absolutely _breathless_. Once and again and again; tongues puddle together and retreat. Flesh glints with saliva, shimmers and shivers with rippling light and shadow like a glimpse of a sea bed trembling with vacillating moonlight.

Delectable.

Perfect.

Yes.

Yes. This is the word.

A universe of _Yes_. More, and more, and more.

Heaving together; slipping apart in faint measures, in trivial increments, and there is only the merciless implacable collision, their crushing communion in flesh, in hunger.

In fingers now lacing together; in Eri's stern sinewy strength surfacing through the skin like bleached alabaster, transcending in its cadaverous pallor even the Yamato Nadeshiko.

And there is heat.

Swallowing; swarming; _devouring_. Pulled down down down, deeper than imagination can even _supply_ between them.

"A-ah... Ah, Yukiko, Yukiko, this- this's what it _feels like_?"

"To get a _niiice_ tit-fuck? Uh- _huh_. Isn't it _amazing_?" Admiring her; adoring her with your eyes.

With your _flesh_.

Her glazed-over stare upturned; a coquettish glint through the lashes' thick bristling quills. The makeup absolutely perfect, perfect, perfect still in its gyaru elegances, pallid ashen stripes dappled on dusky grace.

Her tits a tribute to an animus for tan-lines.

Hot.

Scalding.

 _Draped_ over me; squeezing and pulsating and knowing an exotic obliquity throbbing through her tits' heavy huge gathered flesh, the marshmallow sublime whose undulations are tasted more urgently than her fingers.

They've vanished, also, melting into the plump sumptuous soft skin.

"A-ah, ah, oh, oh, oh, fuck, Yukiko. Yukiko, I-"

"Is Ran- _saaamaaa_ gonna come soon? Is the young lady gonna just... Just pump and pump pump and _pump_ and pour it _all_ over Yukiko- _tan_ 's big big big soft pillowy tits?"

Yes.

Yes.

Soon.

"I- I wanna-"

"Do it." There is incredulity in strength, in preconception's familiar numbing expectation, its psychic nostrum's, betrayal. The violence in it; the _tyranny_ without compunction and without ambiguity roaring from the eyes, lids heavy and shimmering in their lacquered liar's blue.

A perfection; a delirium.

It soars.

Crests in shuddering coruscating electricity, in a grandiose convulsive haze that becomes an immanence, a possession, an act of divine intrusion. At once, it is not your body; it is not your flesh. It is not some vapid cliché; you are not a passenger. It is something more fundamental than this. There _is_ no control; there is nothing like agency, like power, in the bone, in the meat, in the blood. It is merely for their every vicissitude to crane and canter and twist, to tumble into an irresistible conviction that slips away from clutching fingers.

Rearing up, and up, and up, and up. A tremor becomes a quaver becomes a quake becomes the fucking San Andreas simply fissuring with a whimsical little crackle, because this is only what it must be. Its great churning displacement wreathes Tokyo in annihilation.

All is beautiful. Isn't it? Isn't it? It's...

It's her body.

Flesh. And flesh.

The impossible and the unreal and the elementally _supernatural_ , and it is still incarnate here, because it only can be. What is will only forever be what it is. It is not shackled to the normative delirium that our sainted materialistic high priests will peddle to us. The meat is meat; the blood is blood. Heaving and pulsating and racing through the veins, lacquering the brain in its tangible convolutions and the soul deeper, deeper, its strange non-being, its shadow like dark matter, in the most enchanting carnal junk.

Heroin delirium tolls with a thunderclap like a fissuring boulder.

I am become _lust_.

A pump; the hips are animate with their own craving and their own conviction, and it is to know the achingly elegant tremble and flit and strain and _pulse_ in her fingers' lovely lavish sleekness, not simply fastened around the flesh that should not be but teasing and stroking and needling in marshmallow sublimity through that succulent dusky fat and skin like butter-draped crème caramel.

She is madness; she is another vagary in that junk that wreathes and bubbles and churns and roils, a sorceress' great alchemical cauldron. A crucible. I am become the lead to be perfected as gold. A glance with eyes wheeling and rolling and tumbling like a tempest-tossed dromon, and it is only to know a libidinous wrath that does not only corrode but merely _displace_ the mind.

There is nothing there. In that place tucked between the ears and behind the eyes, the sensual has displaced the intellectual. There is nothing like a thought; not one, not one, not even the tiniest micron to be intuited. It is not merely atomized but merely _obliterated_ ; sensation rears up and paints itself in great artful impressionism along the black-velvet haze.

She is there. She is there, and nothing else could aspire to matter. Nothing could and can and would and _will_ surpass this. Nothing will displace it.

"Come on, Ran- _saaamaaa_. Won't you paint Yukiko- _tan_? I _know_ it's not only Yuri- _himei_ that loves it. How often have _you_ with your own little toy? But this isn't a _toy_ , is it?" No, no, no.

Accentuated with a sudden urgent lunging _jerk_ ; and it's to know an impossibility in surfacing from roiling ocean's steeping sticky oiled-silk grace, the peak impossibly rearing up from that glimpse of the Himalayas in flame-kissed marshmallow.

"A-ah-"

"Ngn... C'mon. C'mon. Isn't Yukiko- _tan_ enough for Ran- _saaamaaaa_?" Cooing, quivering, a husky dark importuning and how how how could there be anything so wicked, so depraved, so fucking _diseased_ as rejection, as self-abnegation's blood-poison that we must coax consciously into being to stain bliss in its purified divinity?

How?

How?

"Y-Yukiko, Yukiko," thick, wet, every word sodden and scalding and simply _dragged_ with an anguished labored ordeal from the throat, less language and more an articulated lust. A sonic sexual psychosis.

A somatic insanity, spattering and coiling up up up with razor-wire elegances through every inch.

A tug, a tug, and it is to know a divine hand, a puppeteer whose wicked barbed cables stitch not through the limbs but the _soul_.

There is no resistance.

A glance is more than a glance is more than more than a glance; to know the sumptuous elegances in their geometries twisted together, not slathered with the pain and the fear and the judgment named _jealousy_ with this concatenation of thought and obligation in girlfriend and mother and... And... And... Only the purified eroticism in _this_ ; in the hungry groping voyeuristic fetishism indulged without onanistic self-abnegation. It is Eri and Yuri intertwined; it is the wet pummeling frenzy in Eri's hips upon Yuri's.

It is flesh; it is creamy pallor and a cadaverous china-plate ashenness in communion.

It is beauty; it is flesh; it is a verdigris insanity smeared now with great pummeling numb fingers not groping for purchase on the spirit but only with a vandal's fervor to know the splintering sharp grace in fine stained glass melting into its tinkling ruin, coalescing in great whimsical jumbled mosaics and dissolving again, and coalescing and dissolving, and coalescing and dissolving, because it is is creation's act and not its perpetuity that is coveted.

All is transient.

Do you not understand? Every creation is ultimately an ambition to time's denial; and time will still devour you, will still drag the soul and the sensation and the _flesh_ deeper, deeper, deeper. Does it matter, ultimately? This ideal you will delude yourself is immortality?

Is there immortality without an awareness of this? Pity the van Goghs; there is nothing like gratification and vindication in this. You. Will. Not. Fucking. _Know_.

The ignominy and the sublimity are equally meaningless when they are not tasted.

Perhaps the Papa Docs should not be pitied and sneered at.

Their lives were savored in their fullest wicked bulk.

Should the Ches be adulated for their heroism known only in their facile malleable mortality?

Fuck it.

Fuck _everything_.

Fuck _her_. While their bodies converge and collide and _pummel_ together and it is not to be forgotten; it is not for the word _girlfriend_ to have melted away. This is not the point. It is to know the elemental numbness, the waking retrograde amnesia, the intellectual somnambulism and the moral _perfection_ in this moment while heels _snap_ together with a sharp quiet stroke on the small of Eri's back in its lean athleticism, muscle rearing up, surfacing like a dolphin's wicked fin with whispers of something more diabolic still through the ashen flesh. It is to know the heels' whisper, a raking sibilance furrowing the flesh in carnation stripes.

They are beautiful.

"A-ah! Eri! Eri! Eri! I- I can't fucking stop _coming_! This is, l-like, this's... This's _so_ fuckin' amazing! This's the second-best I've ever had-"

"Maybe I should take offense at that, Yuri- _chan_." Darker; darker; Eri's, mom's, fuck, fuck, does it and _could_ it even aspire to matter anymore? No, no, no. This is the answer. Her voice is darker than darker than black; her eyes could swallow universes and simply consign them to annihilation.

And it is to _heave_ now in that lavish sensual place, that world, that _dominion_ beyond the prosaic and still lurking in the flesh. Because all ultimately is the flesh.

Plunge and _roar_ through the existential anguish.

Through the philosophical despair.

The immortally rejuvenated self-immolation in this sexual perfection. Are you what you had been when you drifted into rest yesterday?

And when this is finished, will you be what you had been a moment ago?

Second after second after second.

Time's endlessly convoluted gradations.

Death.

Life.

A tiny death that is not so tiny and it's to know the sublimity in this rarefied morsel of voyeuristic communion. With them; or with Yuri- _chi_. Her beauty, her allure, the flesh in its lavish unpretentious _unrepetantly_ enchanting femininity, in its simple willingness, whatever the neuroses, the self-flagellation, to _be_. Lean calves and luscious thighs and shapely long long grace; the heavy quivering tits upheld and clasped against Eri's.

The simple allure in the superhuman converging with the beautifully human.

Carve out your throat, and could it aspire to matter?

If you are missed, will it matter to you when your senses have melted away when your soul slips the flesh's bonds?

And if there is nothing but only Descartes' elemental philosophical anguish, are you responsible for your spirit's own conjurations? Animating them with your thoughts, is there a moral onus in this?

And what could it matter? Still, still, still, does the soul's burden eclipse the body's in its immediacy? What is your responsibility? What is your obligation to anyone? Why not just fasten your fingers around the chains brazed together in a whimsical calico patchwork in word and deed and obligation and tear and pull and tug and strain and feel the muscle bloat and the sweat flower over your flesh in great slicks and to know your own ruination in this, and to understand in those last moments that it's the chains that are your body, and to _rejoice_ in this?!

Yes!

Yes!

Happiness is figment.

Sorrow is figment.

Everything is a fabrication. All is only a junk-sick sorrow; all is only the morning-after, the afterglow, the afterimages pouring from a distant photographic negative in our fleeting purchase on the divine. Scream and scream and scream and no one will hear you; to be heard is to taste that communion with what's abandoned us.

To be heard is to be dragged back into its clutches, between its taloned paws, the celestial tiger that will twist and jerk and _wrench_ us into a primordial guise, not without sin or steeped in it but only indifferent to these things. It's not to rap at heaven's door; it's to to open your fucking eyes and to understand that, alone or not, one amongst billions or only the lonely god of your own world, well, it's all meaningless.

A scream.

A _wail_ from my lips. Because it should not be, and it still is, and it's to know reality's very _fabric_ riven open. It's to know the _break_ , the _**snap**_ , in the walls that are little more than theatrical sets. Everything is malleable; everything is subject to the mind's twists, its quirks, its whims.

Yes.

This is its essence.

"A-ah, ah, fuck, fuck, Yukiko- _chan_ -"

"You are! You are! Yukiko- _tan_ can _**feel**_ it. Paint Yukiko- _tan_ ; smear your hot sticky cum _allll_ over her big pillowy titties. She's a pig for your fuck, you know. She _loooves_ it. Yukiko- _tan_ is your fuck-pig, Ran- _sama_. C'mon.

"C'mon. Won't you just _stain_ her with it-"

"A-ah, ah, it's... Eri, Eri, Yuri, I- I'm just..." It's not merely to _stare_ ; it's for the senses to transcend their very boundaries. It is for the eyes to levitate, to _wrench_ themselves from their banal purchase in the bone, in the meat, in the shackling sinews. Admire them.

Adore them.

A hand outstretched and _slapped_ upon Yuri- _chi_ 's and it's to know fingers intertwined. It's simply surrender.

Quiescence to Yukiko's lust.

The blue-eyed liar is not stilled; no, no. But it is not to punish, not an act of collective reprisal.

It's only... Only _this_. A shudder and a quiver and it's rearing up, up, up, and not with the unpredictably predicable absolutism in the faux flesh's mechanistic mandates, in its soft sculpted mathematics still shackled to a reality that _must_ be. This is only what _is_ in its endless vagary and vicissitude.

It's... It's the first sharp urgent _shock_ ; a sense of a threshold transgressed, a border trespassed, and it is irresistible. It is to know gravity's groping embrace; to tumble through the door and, ah, ah, that's not the bathroom at all.

Exit is _exit_.

Eight miles high and plunging, plunging, a stricken sparrow or simply wingless humanity, the mechanical chimera slain and you have been carved from it, and the electricity rears up, rises, soars higher and higher and higher. Eyes flare open; a sense that your lashes should be spearing out in a vast bristling comic book garden.

"A-ah, I'm- I'm..." It's not _coming_.

Not that I've come and gone and... And...

It's a production.

A spectacle. Bubbling and roiling and roaring and _pluming_ up, higher higher, hotter hotter, vast electricity-wreathed talons just _carved_ through every fucking inch. Twisted and battered and broken and it's to be teased apart, for every nerve to be slipped from its brethren, and for these to be bifurcated and _these_ threads bifurcated, and they are spliced back together with a fanciful blindness, and there is only a misfiring insanity that gouges through every sense.

It is for eyes to blaze open in their blindness.

Every _instant_ becomes eternality; and this eternality is carved and winnowed and broken and atomized and subatomized into absolutely nothing.

"I- it's..." It's _there_ ; not the simple machinery. Not the _abstraction_. It's for that bliss in its supersaturated delirium to coalesce deeper than deep. It's to know it sodden and sticky and gathering and concentrating and _roiling_ from a cauldron condensed in pressure-cooker violence until there's only one passage from the body.

Not with head thrown back but only the flesh and bone and blood and meat and soul dragged deep, deeper, deeper still into its gravity. Roar. Wail. It's all meaningless. It's novelty; it's that first kiss of the delicious virginal _newness_ in it.

Spraying up. Once, and again, and again, and it's not with the machinery's cartridge, and not with prepackaged sensualities. It's _my body_. It's palpitating, throbbing.

"A-ah, ahn! Ahn! It's so _hot_ , Ran- _sama_! Y-your daughter is _so_ nice; she's just _filled_ with lust, too, Eri- _chenchei_! You're all driving me craz-aahn!" And there can only be bubbling babbling madness. The first spurt is something tasted in its sodden lightning; you can _feel_ the ozone rasp at your sinuses.

It's a _lunge_ , rearing up, cresting and soaring and a demented rippling _thick_ stripe on her chin, ricocheting back with a violence that casts huge gelid pearls over the luscious gathered flesh; another, another, another, splashing spattering spurting an aesthetic delirium, a delectation brushed in huge nacreous swipes over the plump balloon-voluptuous mounds.

Nipples gathered against her palms; peachy and thick areolae darken deeper, deeper, gather in heavy sun-kissed pebbles.

"A-ah, Yukiko, Yukiko, it's-"

"C'mon. C'mon. Fuck Yukiko- _tan_ 's big huge soft titties. Aren't they _incredible_ , Ran- _sama_? C'mon; c'mon. Fuck Yukiko- _taaan_!" More, more, more, and it's only to know the divine puppeteer's tug.

To be the marionette.

A fundamentally _masculine_ anguish in this; in the essence of that post-coital delirium when the flesh's patience is not merely exhausted but brutalized, inverted into a toe-curling eye-glazing insanity, when even the faintest _kiss_ warps and twists and breaks and transmutes itself into an inexpressible lightning-laced anguish.

"A-ah, c-can't; f-fuck, fuck, stop, stop, Yukiko- _tan_ -"

"Uh-uh- _uh_! Not when there's more of Ran- _saamaaa_ 's delectable cream to milk. More, more, more. Doesn't Ran- _sama_ wanna feed Yukiko- _tan_ even _more_? Her slutty mouth-pussy?" Yes, yes, yes.

There's no resistance; no _ambition_ to this. Quivering pearl threads cast over a cheek; gathered in a thick coalesced clot on her chin; puddling and burbling around me, frothing and churning now with the hips' irresistible convergence with that succulent soft flesh.

Straining up; stirring the vast nacreous ocean that's sprung into being with the body's implacable lusts; with the humors that clamor and plead for outlet, and can only be indulged.

Her tongue's a ruby velvet tapestry, pitching down down, slathered over the peak swollen and hungering and shimmering and effulgent with the cum's satin effusion, lapped away with long lunging strokes, once and again and again and again and it's for the eyes to be anointed with a succulent carnal wisdom in _this_.

In her hunger; in the vulpine caresses that gather in serpentine circuitous streaks droplet upon droplet upon droplet, dragged deeper, deeper, deeper. And the cock's heavy swollen bulk is drawn away and dragged back and her mouth simply _inhales_ now. Devours.

There is only surrender.

There is only genuflection before her while knees still tremble in their levitation; it is an awareness of the flesh simply _disintegration_ in its cohesion.

To know gravity without falling.

To know only _this_.

An immediacy; an urgency.

"A-ah, ah, Yukiko- _tan_ -"

"Yukiko- _tan_ ," every word, every breath, every instant's every convolution, every indivisibly tiny convolution, punctuated with hunger in sticky spattering kisses and caresses, a squelching wet sloppy sputter while lips encircle like a victorious army, "Yukiko- _tan_ is so so _**so**_ happy Ran- _sama_ is delicious.

"Maybe even _sweeter_ than Eri- _chenchei_ -"

"She- she just hasn't had the time to get _bitter_ with age." Eri's laughter husky, heavy, a hot diabolic tease; a quality like black brutal nimbus shivering with lightning in their convergence. There is only beauty.

Only, forever. Eri's silhouette tumbling into Yuri's; a wisdom of flesh bleeding into flesh; and mine spills into Yukiko's, also.

Dusk upon dusk.

Sun-bleached sand upon sand.

Platinum elegances swept with hair in its supersaturated lacquered obsidian; skin shimmers effulgent with sweat.

They are perfect; perfect; it is not jealousy but only a simple awe that cranes open the jaw, that wrenches the tongue from the lips, that drags breath in huge raw ragged gouts up and down and up and down, Eri's hips and Yuri's, also, an implacable and irresistible bellows.

They are beautiful. Yes. Yes.

" _Nya_! Ran- _saamaaaa_ isn't even paying attention to Yukiko- _tan_ ," and again, again, a _slurping_ sputter while cum is tugged deeper and deeper and deeper still, "While Ran- _sama_ fucks Yukiko- _tan_ 's big soft plump titties.

"Ran- _sama_ is so so so _**so**_ mean. Keep being mean to Yukiko- _tan_." Giggling and garrulous and there's a simple will to plunge, to pump, again, again, again, and...

"Ngn... R-Ran, Ran, I- I can't fucking stop _coming_! Eri is- is _**really**_ really really good. N-not like your fingers and tongue-" Yuri's voice ragged and hot and dark and simply _implosive_ , falling back almost unheard into the chest like a stricken hummingbird the instant it crests the lips.

"What a _petulant_ girl you are." Serenaded with Eri's madness; with the stalking negative light transcending shadow lurking behind the ears made manifest, given shape and guise in creamy nihil. "While I'm fucking you 'til your brain's just _spilling_ out of your ears. I can almost hear it splashing on the bed, you nasty little _slut_!" Yes, yes, yes. Pounding; pummeling.

Hips _wet_ upon hips.

"You wet yourself, you know, you filthy little whore. I can _feel_ it; you really _**came**_. More like a man than a woman." Eri's is _not_ so furtive, not so retiring. "It's delicious. Here, Ran- _chan_." And it's delirious.

A hand swept between them; surfacing slick not merely with sweat but that familiar creamy sharp fragrant delirium, masculinity in its feminine pantomime perfected, exalted, a carnal alchemy that transfigures the crude and the perverting and the desecrating into the uplifted.

The _uplifting_.

Her fingers enchant, entrance; the perfume wafts.

Enamels itself like sainted junk on your nostrils.

Trembling beads dribble, _patter_ in hot urgent onyx puddles on the somber gray comforter destined only to blacken deeper and deeper and deeper with the sweat that spills in grandiose slicks around them, a sumptuous _Valdez_ whose drunken madness can only be invited more, more, more.

Those facile boundaries in simpleminded words whose prepackaged meaning can no longer even be tasted are broken, ruptured like tissues breaking with ice's brutal ragged crystals.

Tongue lolling out.

A _brush_ on her fingertip still outstretched with an Empress' peremptory command.

But I am no mere Princess; tug the finger deeper, deeper, 'til it becomes two, and three, and it's to know the sumptuous reflected intimacy in this, the bodies puddling together.

Taste her.

And Yuri. A communion in skin, in flesh, in the juicy delirium in desire that's not alone Sapphic poetry's fragile whispering recitation and comfortably _not_ stained with masculinity's blood-poison. It is its own delirium.

Its own enchanted venom, rearing up, racing through every _inch_ ; enameling itself on every sense; staining every breath.

It is her.

Her.

Yuri's hunger; the body's delirium.

"Ah, Yuri- _chi_ , how _delicious_ you are. Eri _really_ seems to have quite the technique, huh?" How can you not?

How can you not simply _convulse_ with this? Those facile words cast away; jealousy is something that happens to other people in this perfected aesthetic, in this rarefied hungering place, in this universe wrought alone in the body, in the flesh, in the blood.

Always, forever, the blood; the blood in its relentless throb.

The humors that roar and rear up, irresistible and insurmountable.

It is to know their command.

It _shrieks_ in a bellow deeper and darker and hotter than the most dreadful saurian diablerie whose eyes glint in the wet steeping jungles that will ultimately be curtained in desert sand, from which our future and our future's abdication will be pumped in great lunging orgasmic geysers.

It is to savor the dewy fangs' quicksilver slash in the darkness.

Raw and fetid with rancid meat in its accumulated strata.

Thick and briny with blood.

Blood. Always, forever, the blood.

Drag Eri's fingers deeper, deeper, deeper, and it's to know a coalesce union; a gathering communion in flesh, and flesh, and flesh, and flesh. There can only be flesh in this place; in my hips' cum-smeared _pummel_ against Yukiko's chest in its succulent marshmallow cushioning.

In Eri's long lithe fingers slathered with spittle's sticky squelching exuberances, laving away Yuri's pungent desires. A woman and not a woman; there is nothing of a man in this. And those fingers fall deeper, deeper, deeper.

Graze a gag-reflex that only memory could aspire to coax into being.

"Ngn... Ran- _chan_ , you're... Ah, this's so strange. To be _there_. To feel your throat; your sweet soft skin _there_. Damn, damn, damn." Eri's eyes dragged away now to mine; Yuri's half-closed, a lidded madness that's more a surrender to the absolute numbing _slackness_ in the bliss rearing up through her.

"Ngn... Ran, Ran, w-watching you suck Eri's fingers, f-fuck Yukiko's tits," but they are not blind; the eyes will gorge themselves on the simple perfection in flesh and flesh and flesh, "'s drivin' me- me so fuckin' crazy.

"I- I just wish I had a cock like that-"

"Ah, ah, _ah_ , Yuri- _chan_. Not _now_ , anyway. Do you really have absolutely _nooo_ appreciation for symmetry? Can't you see it?" Eri's, mom's, it's...

What _does_ it matter?

This word?

Is there anything like taboo's sharp shock in this, its strange spattering electricity fueled alone with the self-inflicted expectation cast out in great twinkling constellations through the eyes that Must Know. That Will Know.

Will Know You're One of Those People.

Those mother-rapers and father-killers.

Father-rapers and mother-killers.

Mother- _fuckers_.

Oh.

Oh.

Yes, yes, yes.

Lunge higher, higher, higher, and...

"Ngn... L-like, whaddaya mean, Eeeriiiieeuuugh...?" Wilting; _melting_ ; a long _brutal_ pump, rearing back and pitching again against Yuri's hips silences cogency's every pretension. Elegant sleek fingers steepled and straining for purchase on Eri's sweat-lacquered shoulders quake, convulse; those delicious shapely legs _strain_. "G-gah...

"'s..."

"Did you happen to notice the _aesthetic_? Two dark women; two pale ones. Wouldn't it just throw off the _whole_ balance, Yuri- _chan_ , if _two_ pale ones had those delicious bits of magic-"

"S-so give Yukiko a girl-cock, too! Ngn... I- I wanna have one; I wanna have one. I- I wanna _know_ what it's like t-t-to pump an' pump an' pump an' pump an' _come_! I wanna spurt it all out; I wanna _drench_ Yukiko an'- an' you, too, Eri- _sensei_." Eyes crazed and immense and thick bristling lashes flare out and settle back again like a cinching Venus flytrap.

It's madness.

All is madness.

All is simple perfection.

"We'd break the symmetry, wouldn't we?" It's a will to tease.

To torment.

To needle with acupuncture in vast cruel constellations.

"Y-you hafta give me one, too! Eri- _sensei_! Eri! Eri! Please! Pu... Pweaase!" Demented, isn't it?

A saw-toothed sensual insanity.

"Oh, listen to _you_." With a pump; another, another, another, quickening, deep lunging _intense_ strokes that can be felt in a delirious sensual empathy through every _inch_.

"Ngn... T-that's not fair. That's not fair! I wanna _cock_! I wanna girl-cock! Ran gave me one! A-are you really cheaper than your daughter?" A brat.

Isn't this the word?

And Yukiko's eyes are as glazed now as her tits' cream-dappled caramel.

"Ngn... I think that sounds like a _niiice_ idea, y'know, Eri- _chenchei_." Again, again, her lips fastened around the cock that...

That's _mine_.

There.

Pitching up and tumbling back and there's a coalescing madness. An absolutely irrepressible irresistible compulsion. Eyes flitting from flesh to flesh to flesh. And there's a wisdom of something... Something inexpressible.

A clamoring that not merely defies words but dwells in a universe apart from them; that does not well from those polite orderly places where words can even find purchase. They have no evolved there. There is not time, nor space.

Only flesh.

Geometry.

Immediacy.

A wisdom of Eri's ass in its heavily cloven thick muscular _softness-slathered_ elegance; the quaver that heaves it up and down and up and down in a jerking convulsion with every pump. The wet sputtering insanity in her every pitch and plunge between Yuri's lavish thighs.

An awareness of the cleft there; of the graceful movement; the faint tawny pucker and something lovelier still, still, the lips that _roar_ for fingers and lips and hands and something more generous in winking effulgence.

Peeled open for fleeting moments; roseate concentricities coax the eyes deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

It is a delirious and fevered thing.

A need for her.

To be _there_.

"Ngn... Ran- _sama_ 's ignoring Yukiko- _tan_. Ran- _sama_ 's ignoring Yukiko- _tan_ ; she's lookin' at Eri- _chenchei_ an' Yuri- _himei_ -"

"Quiet, you." And there's only a will to tease her, to torment her. To lace fingers through hair still sticky, tacky, _encrusted_ with cum's heavy fantastical likeness and to _tug_ , pull, silence her with a sharp little squeak and something _more_ generous still jabbed between plump satiny lips.

But there's...

There's _Eri_.

There.

It's something perhaps visceral, archetypal; it's idiocy. It's the woe companion only to a mother that's _also_ a beautiful woman, whose flesh is bared there, there, there, in its urgent sumptuous intensity, its _immediacy_.

It is not evolutionary.

Freud is more than a fraud.

It's just...

"I need it. Need it. Need it." It's something irresistible.

Even _skewering_ the wet velvet sublimity in Yukiko's palate, it's there.

Even lunging deeper, and deeper, and deeper still, cradled in Yuri's adoring eyes, it's there.

Need her.

Need her.

And so it's, well...

It _is_.

The elemental enticement in her body. To drag yourself from Yukiko's throat, trailing drool in its leaden deepthroat effusion, and to _clap_ your palms on mom's hips, on Eri's, on... To taste her body in its immediacy.

"W-what the _hell_?" Is that authentic awe?

"Are you _really_ surprised, Eri? Isn't it _every_ daughter's wish to be closer to her mom? To return to that... That _visceral_ place? That Genesis?" Draped over her now; breasts fall heavy, luscious, yes, on her soft sleek tight skin, her youthful elegance, and it's to know her body's achingly graceful arch. "Just say, _No_ , and I'll rape you, anyway."

Laughter, laughter, her lips and mine and it's... It's _there_.

"Listen to _that_ , Yuri- _chan_. My daughter wants to make a sandwich out of me-"

"D-do it! Do it, Ran- _chaaan_!" Cooing; quivering.

Yuri's importuning.

And even Yukiko now, her long lovely fingers wending over my shoulders.

Her voice a sticky sodden exhortation wafting through the ears, tingling the cheeks.

"C'mon, Eri- _chenchei_. I wanna _see_ -"

"All of you are absolutely _crazy_." And this is not rejection.

This is adulation from Eri.

And it's...

It's incredible. With tits grazing Eri's shoulders; with flesh clasped against Yuri's long long deliciously long legs curtained in shimmering sweat-lucent hosiery; with her oh so sumptuously slutty heels groaning and grinding against skin and...

And with _this_.

So so so close.

A brush.

It's something virginal; legitimately absolutely fucking unreally _novel_. To have known this, and never savored it in its authenticity; to have feasted alone upon a digital simulacrum, a second-order figment, a _second-best_ , and this ratifies that ultimately, ultimately, there is no ambition of savoring again a pretense of melon in honey-smeared cucumber when you have known _this_.

Plump. Succulent. Overripe.

 _Brushed_ along those lust-greasy lips.

Eri's voice a deep guttural _snarl_ rearing up from the throat.

Tormenting the ears.

"O-oh, oh, _oh_ , you're so _hot_ , Ran. You feel just like, well..." With eyes a sharp coquettish flit. "I guess I shouldn't tease you _that_ much."

"Don't compare me to _that man_ -"

"I wouldn't dare. I wouldn't _dare_ , Ran- _chan_. You're... Ah... Ah!" With a rarefied _speechlessness_ wreathing her lips; to know the bruised elegances tumbling open; to savor her jaws' shudder when the head's finally, finally, _finally_ eased with a languid grace against her.

Swept up.

And down.

Up and down and up and down and, well, there is still a communion in melon and cucumber, isn't there?

"Ah, ah, Ran, y-you're... Fuck, put it _inside_ me-"

"I don't think you're in a position to _order_ me, you know, mom. This is such _outrageous_ child abuse. I should report you." Laughter, laughter.

Nakedness now but for the adorable schoolgirl heels.

The stockings brilliant with perspiration and half-lucent on my thighs.

Yukiko not behind me but only knelt with an adoring genuflection.

And it's there.

There.

And... And with palms _clamped_ on Eri's voluptuous ass, her curvaceous sumptuous hips, there's ultimately nothing but the advance. It is to be poised upon a border that entices, that invites, that coaxes you into an invasion.

How can you resist?

How can you not simply plunge into the warmth that is not merely warm, but an inferno?

It's...

It _is_.

Absolutely new.

Never tasted.

"A-ah, ah, oh, _fuck_. Fuck, fuck, fuck, Eri, Eri, it's..." It's a sublime novelty.

In the flesh.

In hers.

In mine.

To know the ridges and furrows and convolutions not in prepackaged porno-manufactured sensation, whatever the valiant carnal democracy, but only what it is, what it _must_ be; not rubber in its sternness but yielding plump flesh and ground against her, wheeling and twisting through the convolutions and the circuitous strange meanders and...

And her body is a psychosexual venom.

Is a poison that spears deep, deep, deep.

"Ah, ah, Eri, Eri, it's..." Hips dimple with my fingers; a wince becomes a snarl becomes eyes tumbling closed with no ambition of opening for anything but to savor Yuri- _chi_ 's face, her eyes. "Yuri, this feels so fucking _incredible_.

"Does- doesn't it? To be fucked raw? T-to fuck raw-"

"I wanna do it, too!" Yuri- _chi_ 's originality is just _oh_ so wanting, ain't it? In the quivering rheumy crazed eyes; in the trembling lips that strain to pursed suctioning seams and fall closed again with the quaking jaws. "I wanna do it _so_ fuckin' bad! Please, please, please, I... I wanna... I wanna have a cock, too, Eri- _sensei_. Please. Please, Eri. Eri. Please. Please! I wanna know how it feels-"

"Oh, you _naughty_ girls. Already so spoi-oiled!" Eri's pitch rising, rising, an operatic grace before it's simply imploding again, _bottoming out_ into heavy snarling guttural insanity. "Oh... Oh, Ran, Ran, you just- you just made me come!"

"I know. I know." How could I _not_?

Clenching.

Coiling.

Taut serpentine hungers.

Cinched and crunching around me. Every _pump_ is an invitation now to that outlet, to that simple perfection in toe-curling head-flung-back electrical madness. Is a wish for that lightning's strike again and again and again.

And a plea for it to be deferred. For it to gather and grow and burgeon and embellish itself with every instant, every breath, every stroke and plunge and the eyes can only be transfixed, awed with your breasts' heavy quaver and _that_ , that, _**that**_ , the flesh in its natural magic inscrutably more distant, more unbelievable, than plastic desires and...

And it's beautiful.

Knowing the lips distending, _straining_ with a clutching sticky hunger around its generous plump bulk, tugged away and pitching back again, meat and meat and meat, seesawing, vacillating, a simple _incredulity_ that this could be.

And it is.

It is.

"A-ah, oh, oh, this feels... This feels _so_ fucking incredible! D-dammit, to be surrounded by two beautiful young women, it's... No man could _ever_ know this." No, no, no.

No one could.

Not with Eri's quavering jaw-clenching violences.

Not with the simple symmetry, the strange reflected hungers, Eri's flesh a conduit for Yuri's lust, for mine; and mine for theirs; and hers for _ours_. For this simple sumptuous communion and...

And there is a will only for more, more, more.

For...

"Ngn... Won't you make _Yuuukiko- **tan**_ feel good, too? Please, please, please, _please_! E-even with the plug, you can, Yuri- _himei_." Wheedling.

Beseeching.

Yukiko simply _slipping_ with the hips' quick pivot, with the long sinuous legs' graceful quirk, onto the mattress.

Yes, yes, yes.

"O-oh, f-fuck, fuck, yeah." Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes an enchanted dichotomy in the transfixed and the glazed-over and unfocused, wheeling from flesh to flesh to flesh to flesh in the trivial increments between huge raw ragged breaths. "I- I always wanned'a do this. I- I'll lick you, Yukiko. Yukiko. Yeah. C'mon; c'mon. Eri, I... A-are-"

"Oh, oh, oh, oh, Ran, Ran, are- are you already going to _come_ inside me?" With Eri's eyes huge and suddenly violently transfixed with mine.

And there is only one answer.

"Y-yes." Impossible.

Isn't it?

Urgent.

Heaving.

Irresistible.

A clutching psychosis that's shouldering away anything like restraint, like compunction. The novelty, the delectation, the simple insanity in all of this, in the bodies in their achingly elegant geometries, and...

"Yukiko, you're going to have _quite_ the fun after this, so- so don't do it _yet_. I want to be able to kiss Yuri- _chan_ when... When _I_ come. It's going to come so soon; n-not... Not _inside_ me-"

"Ngn... Yukiko- _tan_ 's going crazy, just _watching_ all of you!" With Yukiko's voice rearing higher, higher, higher.

"Believe me, you nasty little fuck-pig, you'll be _very_ well-rewarded for your patience." The delight and the delectation in mom's voice.

In the unreal mother-daughter symmetry.

"Yay!" Closer, closer, closer.

Icarus' wings in their exuberant satin beat while the wax's first droplets patter quietly through the endless sun-scalded abyss.

Yes.

Yes.

But your craving _is_ the melting.

Is your very _soul_ 's dissolution.

Annihilation.

"A-ah, ah, mom, it's..."

"J-just wait a second. Please. Please. You're- ah, ah, Yuri!" There is no longer anything like the honorific formulae.

Only _this_.

Bodies.

Bodies.

Yuri's heels gathered, _spearing_ into Eri's shoulders; her eyes not clenching closed but only opening to swallow the universe in its fullest scope, arms sleek and lean and long outstretched to clutch at flesh, for her fingers to find purchase on mine, for Eri's to fasten with dimpling fervor around Yuri's ribs, around the soft sumptuous skin.

And just...

To pump.

To pound.

Hammer.

Reality a convulsive confusion in movement, in skin, in meat and bone.

In the blood.

In _this_.

In the scream rearing up, huge and bubbling like the thermonuclear haze rising from humanity's pride, from a sun conjured in our most exalted industry, our most sainted artifice, and with cheeks in their creamy sweat-smeared beauty stained carnation in its reflection.

With Eri's roar.

An awareness of something deeper, deeper, deeper, a cinching clutching clenching frenzy that grinds and kneads and gnashes and it's _here_.

It's here here _**here**_.

Inside her.

Rearing up.

A pulsation and a spurt and sputter and it's already just... It's _numbing_ in its hugeness. In the electricity that tears into the body with its great raking talons and digs and rips and flays and frays and excavates and _**pulverizes**_.

Everything heaved into her.

Everything.

Everything.

Fingers aspire to bruise those delicious curvaceous hips; bite pull rip rake and... And it's here. Here. Flowering up with a displacement like a whale shouldering through a mouse hole.

"Yeah. _Yeah_!"

Everything.

At once, at once, this is the universe's only dimension while language and any sense but this perfect polarized delirium _die_.

Wilting over her; the hips are a merciless hunger.

Pumping.

Wet and squelching with lust; with the creamy froth that's bubbling up now in a seafoam effusion.

"I-I'm so full! I'm so f-full! Eri, Eri, R-Ran, I'm... It's so _hot_ ; it's so fucking _**incredible**_!" While Yuri's voice flares up; while her fingers clutch at mine; while there's only a delirious communion in this. "I'm so full; there's so _much_.

"It- it feels so good. S-so fuckin' good-"

"It does. Oh, oh, Ran, you're just- you _filled_ me up. It's- it's already spraying out, you _naughty_ impatient little girl." Kiss her.

Kiss her.

Lips fall together while Eri's spine scribes a crazed rearing arch.

While Yuri's will is to rise with us.

It's broken, broken. Eyes settle between Yuri's thighs, Eri's, both sprawled out over the mattress, a sumptuous promiscuity in limbs entangled, in hips clasped together, Eri's flesh _dragged_ with a lurid sodden squelch from Yuri and...

And it's incredible; their lips their flesh their hunger their pussies in tandem, clamped together without that confluence, thick nacre drooling out.

A will to kiss.

Both of them. Mouth _clamoring_ for them.

So it is.

Esurience is will.

"A-ahn, ahn, Ran, that- that feels _so_ fuckin' good!" Yuri sprawled on her spine, an act of something like waking catatonia, legs not convulsive but only shuddering with a few rarefied inklings of life's urgent straining vigor in a tremor or a quaver. Her breast _flares_ with a gasp that heaves aloft Eri for the most fleeting interval of seconds, falling down down again.

And Eri, also, lips splayed, thickly cloven.

"Ngn... F-fuck, fuck, Ran, that's _really_ something more lovers should learn to do, you know. C-clean up after themselves. Even... Even _that guy_ needs to be bullied into it." Eri's voice a shiver, a coo, a gasp, life's inception at a trilling trembling operatic peak and simply imploding ineluctably in an achingly elegant embrace with gravity, fingers laced together in a courtly dance, tumbling tumbling tumbling down. Beauty.

Grace.

Delirium.

The sky sprawls in its endless unknown horizons; the windows hammered closed, curtains drawn in abysmal gloom, and there is only the simple awareness of the _infinite_ in these non-horizons, in this non-being. There is only its perfect unbroken potential.

So it will not be the city's cold heat in concrete and glass and steel vistas in their ambition to an unbroken communion with cash's senseless constellations but Marrākush in its grimy disorderly grace. And it will twist and break itself with the casbah's aged fortress stone splintering and ground into a velveteen mist and the mist is a djinn's will made manifest, warping and wheeling and finally, finally, it is another world, another dimension, another _plane_.

It is to know potential in its fullest scope; it is to heave apart your arms and to beckon close to the chest another possibility where Der Babelturm lies unbroken, where the Divine's finger does not jab with wrathful lightning and simpleminded jealousy but invites only the elemental community in man, but there is not this disease named man because there _cannot_ be.

Because it is only woman.

And woman.

Because our divinity is named Laylah, Angel of The Night. Of Woman. Of Dark Delirium. A bliss and a perfection in this simple being. In the long fine legs caressed; in the fingers clutching and laced together. In the flesh in its unpretentious candor, because it need not be shackled in our endlessly violent jealousy.

We will know only _this_.

Kiss her; kiss her.

Kiss the _hers_.

The lips clasped together; a palm clamped on Eri's hips and it's for her to be eased down, down, down, borne onto Yuri, or perhaps it's that Yuri only rears up with my will. But it's meaningless; it's only to know their flesh clamped together.

The simple _convenience_ in this delirium, in this rarefied confection, woman and woman.

"W-whoa, ah, ah-"

"Ran, you've gotten so _assertive_." Is this a mother's approval, or a lover's, or is it of absolutely no meaning _what_ this dimension is. A glance cast over a lean shoulder still rippling not merely with orgasm's convulsions but something deeper and more urgent and more intense. Than fulfillment that can be an end unto itself.

I'd rather it just be a semicolon.

"Ngn... Ran, Ran, y-you're so fuckin' incredible. Yeah. Yeah!" Yuri's eyes savored now, also, and it is for seas to open, to be splayed apart, and their bodies are conjoined and there is no answer but a senseless babble tumbling from a throat that's little more than numb meaninglessness while the tongue flits and coils and flickers and flares and thrashes and while their bodies are known, are _devoured_. Yes, yes, yes.

Because the tongue is reserved for a wisdom profounder than any banal language. Because theirs is a novel communion in flavor; in mom's bitterness like lemon meringue and Yuri's fundamental _mawkishness_ and the cum's heady luscious oppressive treacly elegances, because there is not a man's fetor, no, no, no.

Not the filth and the defilement.

Lap.

Lave.

Kiss.

Tongue twisting between them; working rearing up, up, along the flesh in its lovely thick sumptuous convolutions. Know the syrupy gradations; adore the succulent juicy femininity, the overripe-fruit allure that can only entrance and only enchant and only devour. Deeper, and deeper, and deeper, and we are become Ouroboros. It is _my_ will to be eaten, also, and Yukiko has slumped onto her knees again, an achingly lovely genuflection.

"Ngn... Ran- _saaamaaa_ , don't just bogart it _aaalll_ -"

"Here." It is noblesse oblige; it is simple compassion. Isn't it? The Empress' onus to lavish her Subject with the supremest indulgence. With fingers lacing through her ringlets' velvet auburn; with lips crushed upon hers.

"Here. Here." Feed her; feed her. Know the flavors in their confluences; in the creamy thick grace; the few faint morsels of velvet frothing mousse and clots that whisper of some fundamental magic authenticity in this.

Tumbling between her lips.

And slipped back. Again, and again, and again, saliva gathering in the heavy wads, bubbling and sputtering and roiling now with the lips' wet squelching caresses, falling together and slipping apart.

Yuri's eyes immense; there's an awareness of their stare, their hunger.

"A-oh, oh, _fuck_. Ran. Ran. Yukiko. T-that's one of the hottest things I've ever seen-"

"Well, isn't _this_ a novel breed of swapping?" Eri's lips trace the words with affectations of neutrality.

She is as neutral as Switzerland.

The eyes betray a darker fervor; the fingers, also, twisting around Yuri's.

And slipping away; an awareness of movement now beside my left shoulder while Yukiko's hands have settled on my hips; while there is only the will to taste her, taste her, taste her. To know the allure in her body's lovely luscious geometries.

Her mouth clasped upon mine; slowly, slowly, Eri's cum and mine puddle together, drool between the tongues outstretched, conveyors for the lust-and-spittle heaps that coalesce and cohere gelid and heavy and cohesive now, a frothing white paste.

"Ngn..." Eri and Yuri's hips clasped together; a hand _tasted_ in its clap between Yuri's lavish plump thighs. "A-ah, ah, Eri-"

"Won't you help _me_ , also, Yuri- _chan_?" And they're there; there; there. So so _so_ fucking close. Eri's glasses brutal cold enticement.

Command. There is no delicate cajoling in this; there is no patient urging; there are no achingly modest whispers. Only importuning frenzy; only Yuri's fingers settling not on that heaving swollen hunger but deeper, deeper, lower, lower, a stroke, a _squelch_ , a sputter and a sigh and it's the simple perfection in admiring them akimbo, those sleek sensual morsels of femininity stroked and adulated and _plumbed_ now, deeper, deeper, deeper.

"A-ahn... Eri- _sensei_ , y-your fingers are... Are _really_ fuckin' awesome, too. L-like, it's... Ahn..."

"What about you, Yuri- _chan_? I feel so strange; a nineteen-year-old girl's hands on my body. To be _inside_ a nineteen-year-old girl. It feels perverse, doesn't it, Yukiko- _tan_?" But there is no answer; there _can_ be none. None, none, none. Not while her lips are monopolized; not while the cum _slides_ in thick clotted smears from tongue to tongue.

To mine; to hers.

Mouths taste, adore, adorn.

Embroider it.

Great pinions coalesce around the heavy quivering core; tumble to and fro and there's a mischievous clamoring only to gorge yourself, to swallow, swallow, know its huge shuddering passage down your throat.

You cannot.

Not while fingers lace around her tits; not while _hers_ have begun their own irresistible exploration. It isn't a point of consensus; it is not command and surrender. It is only the fundamental visceral wisdom in the flesh animating itself.

The mind has not been wrenched away; it is not a mere passenger. It is not a simple bystander. It is only an exuberant accomplice. It is to be complicit in every twinge; every strange quiver and twang in the nerves.

It is for causality to be warped.

For deed and repercussion to be broken in their continuity.

What is now is what lies a moment in the future; the past cannot dictate this. The future will coil around itself and become an elegantly knotted glimpse of moments before; moments before will slump sullenly into the present.

We are admiring time broken upon its own axis, wrenched with graceful and brutal quirks and twists into spliced fractal nonsense. Delirious.

Delicious.

She is delicious.

She is sumptuous.

She is _luscious_.

Touch her; touch her; touch her; know the fingers slipping down down down, splayed out in a great dusky sunburst, a negative light over her caramel-stained belly; savor the fine muscle and the lean flesh and fat's faintest photogenic kiss and it is only an irresistible plunge with gravity's embrace.

 _Down_.

"Nya!" Gurgling now with the cum's sticky vestiges still wadded on plump lips; a stroke, a stroke, tasting the plug's rubber-enameled periphery. There is no obstacle to _that_ ; to the pearl whose hunger flares and inflames and simply _blazes_ through a cowl that is not modesty but only a fan-dancer's coquettish curtaining fabrics.

"Ngn... Ah, ah, Ran- _sama_ , 's- 's so good. Ran- _sama_ is touchin' Yukiko- _tan_ 's clitty, an'... A-ah! Ahn!" Trembling; shuddering.

Creamy fabrics curtaining long shapely legs have simply melted into a strange twilit translucence; the qipao is comfortably ravaged with sweat in its silken fineness; her body is a delirious sleek perfection that clamors only for more, more.

"Ran, Ran, watching you two is, like, it's just... A-ahn, ah, ah, Eri's... She's... Ngn... I- I want _you_ t'touch me, too. Please, please, please." Yuri's pleas are something irresistible.

A need to adore her.

Indulge her.

Delight her; a hand spared and tucked between those sumptuous thighs. A stroke; a quirk; a caress; fingers churn and squelch through the heavy hot feathery darkness, a bliss captured in her hips' unknowable hungry depths, wet thick smears drooling down down down along the knuckles in a prickling blaze.

Her eyes tremble; her head tumbles back, fine swanlike neck slackening; and Eri's lips are the vampire's, fastened on her throat, kisses dewy and sweet and pattering and soft over creamy flesh.

"Ngn... It's... It feels so fuckin' good. I'm- I'm gonna come; I'm coming!" Squalling.

Voice rearing up, up, up, and...

"Ngn... Don't _hoard_ all of that delicious sweet milk, Ran- _samaaaa_! Yukiko- _tan_ wants some, too, y'know. C'mon. C'mon. W-won't you give Yukiko- _tan_ s'milk?" Yes. Yes.

It's...

It's a pageantry; a grace; a perfection that transcends a simple kiss. Craning, twisting, bodies in their exquisitely graceful twist; her spine arching and head craned back and jaws simply _cranked_ open, punctuated with an irresistible little _aaah_.

You can only open your mouth.

The clot has become an ocean gelling into a taut quavering globular _heap_ ; and it's falling, falling, falling, slipping through your lips and settling against her palate, burbling up in its elemental thickness, its sticky frothing effusion inflated like bubblegum, burbling up up up and...

And it's incredible.

"I want you. Now. Now. Yukiko. I- I'm not going to control myself anymore." My fingers are there, aren't they, now?

Dragged from between Yuri- _chi_ 's thighs, because this is something that _must_ be. Still stained with the cum in its fragrant sweet grace, there's a will not to kiss her, no, no, no, but only to _gnaw_ ; maul; to _devour_.

Inhale her. Fingers laced into her underarms; strength upon strength upon strength. Her delicious long legs unfurl to their fullest height while she's dragged up; while reality breaks and warps and she's simply flung back on her spine, serenading with the cum disturbed and shuddering and burbling and gurgling.

Perhaps there is only destiny in the shackling chemistries conveyed to you through the flesh.

The corruption in fate that becomes a certain and ineluctable alchemy; that becomes deed wrought in your parents' communion.

Fingers on Yukiko's knees; twist and tug and her hips are borne, up, up, up, heels craned to stab at the ceiling with an impotent and fitful venom. And there is a spontaneity in this.

"I'm going to _fuck_ you, Yukiko; I'm going to fucking _impale_ you; skewer you; devour you. I need it. I can't fucking _wait_ anymore. I'm sorry, Yuri. I am. I just... She's irresistible, isn't she? I've always wondered.

"Always... Haven't you?" With eyes dark, trembling. "That blue-eyed liar. I always wondered what it would be to fuck the girls _he_ had; that fucking hypocrite; that useless pathetic heap of meat cast in my _dad_ 's image.

"I always wondered what it would feel like to know that heavy hot _cum_ bubbling from a woman's body. The- the plastic boy-meat ain't enough. You don't mind, right, Yuri- _chi_?"

"Ah, l-like, I kinda... I kinda thinka _this_ as, um, all sorta _outside_ of reality, I guess." While she's not wilting but only... Only _slipping_ closer, closer, closer, thighs splayed apart, hands clasped there, rearing up and falling down with a deliberate long slow scouring stroke in sighing palms and clutching fingers.

She's beautiful.

She _is_ beauty in its most elemental guise. Lovelier than the superhumanity in Eri, in Yukiko. This is... Is true, isn't it? In the heavily-lobed eyes; in the sharply lacquered hair like obsidian spun into silk bobbed around her jaw and simply matted on her chin.

"I mean, y'know, it's just... It's all about playing around, right? 'cause, um, I- I don't think 's exactly bein' super-... Whatever to do that with Eri; an' with you doin' that with Yukiko. An' you and _me_ doin' that with Yukiko an'...

"Oh, _fuck_ , for you to fuck Eri? That was- I can't really put it into _words_. All of you drive me crazy; 'specially you, Ran- _chan_. Seriously, seriously, so much. I think I'm falling hard." Closer, closer. "I wanna little kissy-"

"Oh, yes, _yes_." And there is only the simple perfection in this. In warmth upon warmth; in her mouth clamped on mine. In the lips' communion; in the flesh that bleeds into flesh.

"You taste so _sweet_ , Ran. Is- is that what _we_ taste like? All the cum in me, in Eri?" While Eri simply _looms_.

Not lurks; no, no.

There is a supreme self-confidence in her poise; in the fingers that wend now through Yukiko's long satiny curls; in the sudden succulent violence in a clutching grope at the heavy luscious tits.

The voice a deep husky snarl.

"Well, don't _you_ look delectable, Yukiko- _tan_? You know, I think my daughter _really_ must have inherited everything from me. Right? Not even one _word_?" And it's oh so deliciously cruel, ain't it?

With the cum's huge clotted wad simply _straining_ against her cheeks.

"Aren't you going to answer, Yukiko- _tan_?" Down, down, down, Eri's long lithe fingers simply _twisted_ around curvaceous thighs; knees ground further, further against her tits' huge plump escarpment; her heels scribe demented thoughtless orbits to and fro and to and fro, wheeling and quivering with the legs' shuddering convulsions.

"What a _bad_ little whore you are, Yukiko- _tan_. But that's what I want."

And Yuri's eyes swallow mine; her tongue tugged deep and slackened only to pull mine closer, closer, closer.

"Won't you fuck me, Ran? Please, please, _please_ , won't you fuck _me_ , too? I want it; even if it's just a little pump, I _really_ want it. What... Won't you give _me_ a girlcock, too, Eri- _sensei_ -"

"If you'll stop calling me _-sensei_ , anyway. It's driving me fucking _insane_ ; I have absolutely _**no**_ interest in the pious formalities _out_ of that sepulcher they call a courtroom." Commanding.

Demanding.

Every realistic gradation in tyrannical _ing_ s.

Yes, yes, yes.

"Ah, 'kay, Eri- _chenchei_." A mischief that could probably simply swallow universes; the lips tremble with a finger coiling up up up into that soft dominion that is not a parallel reality and still, still, will never obey this place's structured laws, its exalted absolutes. "A-ah... Ran, Ran." While her jaws grind together; while the world simply draws taut upon itself, a bow twisting and twanging and trembling with its merciless and implacable violences. "Ah...

"Oh, _fuck_ , yeah. Yeah. I..."

"Oh, don't worry, _Raaaan_." Eri's voice not a mother's.

Not a lover's.

It's a playground jab.

A taunt.

"I won't open up Yukiko _yet_. I'll just... Enjoy myself with the other soft places here." With fingers settling like predatory storks over Yukiko's tits in their great splaying weight, falling apart from one another with their luscious plump effusion, with the quality that belies the artists' inept and opaque scrawling.

The simple truth that they are water balloons sodden with fat.

Swollen.

Straining.

A gasp strangled and simply throttled with the cum's vast thickened effusion; a carnal pudding heaped behind her lips.

And there is a need for more, more.

"Ngn... Yuri- _chan_ , why don't _you_ kiss Yukiko, too?" The plea coalescing on _my_ lips is heavier, hotter, more urgent still. "You can, right? There's the plug, but it's not keeping you from _everything_. On your belly; on your knees and hands. I want to fuck you. I really really _**really**_ wanna fuck you-"

"Not that. I, um, I have _another_ idea, 'kay? C'mon, Yukiko. You're going to go for a ride on my face." Oh, oh, _yes_. This is a delirium; a perfection. Yukiko's body is her own; is not her own at all. It is to savor the delicious duality in this, in the consensual surrender to absolute _submission_. In Yukiko's flesh twisted, wrenched, knees settling around Yuri's cheeks, and there can be absolutely nothing but Yukiko's bitch-in-heat trembling, skin flushed with a sunset flare shimmering prismatic with her sweat's lavish scrawling slick.

Yes.

Yes.

Yuri's lips melt against sticky sodden flesh.

And it is to savor not only the rarefied but simply the unprecedented in this.

"Ngn... You're that eager to taste mommy's sloppy seconds, Ran- _chan_?" Eri's simply _there_.

Behind me.

An awareness of the presence, the shadow curtaining me.

A demented historical symmetry.

"I wouldn't say _that_ , Eri-"

"Oh, let me help you, honey." Insanity. There is forever perhaps a defilement, a disease, in this slant, this asymmetry, in parent and child; reality's very dimensions deformed, your height rearing up over theirs diminished, and you are again and always merely five or six or ten or fifteen but it can't truly matter.

There is a sense of the impotent.

It is not in _this_ ; not in the flesh that hasn't stirred, because there is no need to rear up any more. Her fingers there, _tangled_ around me, scalding and firm and irresistible and unequivocal. Pulled and tugged and simply urged closer, and closer, and closer to that heat.

To Yuri- _chi_ 's heat; to the sublimity that lies in the thighs' tight lush confluence; in that delta, yes, yes, so fucking romantic, so passionate, but it is the simple truth, nestled under tightly knotted curls.

"Eri-"

"Call me _mom_ right now, won't you? I'm- I'm kind of orgasm-drunk; I want to hear it. Does it... Does it appall you to think that I've been imagining my own daughter like this? This _lust_ in me. Is it sick, Ran? Does it make you sick to think about it?"

"I've wanted to fuck _you_ , mom. More like _rape_ you 'til you sob-"

"Well, consider this family therapy." How glib we are; both of us. "I'll let you fuck me like that _later_. I wouldn't mind. I think you're probably the only one violent and mean enough to do it. Can't fuck myself, after all.

"But this... Let me be your mom, huh? Let me give you, ah, a little hand." It's more than a _little_.

A stroke.

A pump.

Knees tremble, slip over the mattress, closer and closer and closer to Yuri, to those lips that can only entice.

That sumptuous roseate blossom that will only ever entrance. Men, ultimately, are useless, aren't they? Less than merely fucking _useless_. The compulsion to exercise delusions of power, of agency, over this tyranny in the ugly, the degrading.

A woman's flesh is beautiful.

Only forever beautiful.

Pussy.

Yes.

Yes.

A pussy; a pretty, _delicious_ thing.

To touch.

Stroke.

And mom's hands are something irresistible; a palm on my shoulder becomes a sharp clamp on the hips while all pivots around her will's axis, around its command, and it is to know falling, falling, falling, fingers still laced around _that_.

"M-mom-"

"I'm not going to bring you off _that_ soon, am I?" With more than a little judgment. "Ngng... I hope my daughter hasn't become a premature ejaculator-"

"N-no. No. It's just... It's so novel-"

"Well, of course. When _I_ did this the first time, ah, it was with a sleeve. I couldn't believe it; I _wouldn't_ believe it was true. And then it was with the mystic who introduced me to all of this. Mmm... My _first_ orgasm came in just about a second.

"It was a little startling. And then second, and the third, ah, those must have only been a few minutes-"

"Hypocrite." Silenced with her lips.

"Of course. All parents are. Call it charming; call it a voice of _confidence_ for their children's future."

"Cunt."

"You've already had _that_." Yes, yes, yes. "Your cum's still drooling down my thigh, y'know, Ran- _chan_. It's so hot; even when you already dragged out most of it, there's still a huge _pool_ there. And in Yukiko's mouth.

"I've told her she can't swallow it. I wonder if it'll break her jaw." While Yuri's voice has been muffled between shapely lush thighs; while her tongue's been monopolized now with that hungering pearl, flitting flickering stroking striping _straining_ up up up in huge prolonged wet arcs.

A stroke; once and again and again.

Palms clasped on Yukiko's thighs.

"I think you've found _quite_ the girlfriend, you know, Ran-"

"Don't expect this to be every day, _mom_."

"Maybe it will. I think she has a thing for _all_ of us."

"All of us superhumans. A celebrity fuck-crush on you and Yukiko-"

"It's enough for me. As long as there's _fucking_ in it, anyway." Lips just... It's more a sense of gelatin kissed with a flamethrower's velvet breath.

To know her mouth's gnawing wet heat on my right ear; to savor the tongue's languorous coiling caress, rearing up and pitching down.

Suckling at the lobe.

"Ngn... M-mom-"

" _Exactly_ , honey. You know, I think you _are_ even prettier than I am. I wonder if you'll need glasses when you're older-"

" _I hope so!_ " Yuri's conviction less than furtive.

Or whatever can be deciphered in the quailing tongue-numb _wahoshowww_ from between Yukiko's thighs.

"She's so gorgeous. And she's another glasses beauty, huh? I'd say you maybe have a _type_ , Ran- _chan_. Do you?"

"Beautiful women? I wouldn't say that's a _type_ so much as a tautology-"

"Uh-uh- _uh_. That's not what I mean. The more _Japanese_ girls, right? C'mon. Let me introduce your, ah, stinger to your Yamato Nadeshiko's beautiful blossom. She's _so_ hot; she's _so_ tight. I can barely believe it.

"I think I might need to start answering some of my younger fans' letters."

"Degenerate."

"Premature ejaculator."

"Ephebophile."

" _Prude_." Ah, ah, ah, and now there's an escalation to nuclear exchange. A simple fucking _wickedness_ in this.

And there's no answer at all; no riposte. How _could_ there be with the blade very comfortably incapacitated in _her_ fingers, tugged closer closer closer, her palm now an irresistible shuddering tension on the small of my back.

Fingers dip down, down, down with mischievous grace to...

To _that_.

"A-ah, ah, Eri-"

"Call me _mommy_ -"

"You're fuckin' diseased."

"Don't be a wowser, honey." Ah, ah, ah. This is the answer. While... While Yuri's lips are _there_ ; still frothing and churning and sodden and scalding with...

With mom.

With that lust.

Bubbling up around me.

A great heavy sodden plume that could never be plucked away with anything as prosaic, as _tiny_ , as the tongue's quick vulpine stripe.

Heat.

Heat.

A sudden stillness like a coalescing tempest; an awareness of that plunging pressure; the electricity suffusing every _inch_ , poisoning every cell. There can only only _only_ be this.

A tremor.

A quake.

Palms clasped on her belly; and falling, falling, falling, because there is absolutely no hope of anything but surrender to her gravity's implacable and irresistible groping strength.

Pulled deeper.

Deeper.

Is it possible?

Is it?...

It's to know the gradations in the flesh; it's to savor, to _taste_ , the fundamental novelty in the body's vagaries. In hers; in Eri's. Something absolutely unique; strength where there is perhaps a bit of dark formlessness in Eri's; a diminution where there is simply straining crushing violence in Eri's.

The elegant textures.

Heavy taut coils kneading now with a relentless frenzy.

"A-ah, ah, Raan! Oh, oh, you're inside me! You're- you're really there-"

"Y-yeah. Yeah." Falling down, down, down, and...

And, well, perhaps it's cruel.

To hell with Yukiko.

Not _tossing_ her away; only a gentle, or, well, whatever the hell could _aspire_ to gentleness in this instant. A graceful pressure; urging her from Yuri's lips. Fingers clutch at hers; hunger and passion in union.

Need her.

Need her.

Impale her.

It isn't merely to _spear_ her.

A sense of something mad, febrile.

Diabolic.

Yes, yes, yes, it is a wickedness.

A séance with Vlad Ţepeş.

I am become The Impaler.

Once.

And again.

And again.

Rearing up and heaved down again with a violence that would whisper wicked imprecations against the simple _desire_ in this; that would shiver with a bestial calumny against the craving and the clamoring and the convulsive shuddering need.

It is a madness, a diablerie, a debauchery surpassing any dissoluteness.

But it is her will.

There is no resistance.

Drawn back and plunged down; again and again and again and it's now more than a little self-evident, isn't it? Announced in her hips' languorous slow brush against _me_.

"Ngn... Ran- _chan_ , you don't mind, right? You're the only one who hasn't had _aaanything_ in her. And I think it would just be _remiss_ of your mother not to show her daughter just _how_ delectable a sandwich is, right?

"You didn't have the most selective appetite as a little girl; I'm sure you'll _love_ this, too." It's...

It's an invitation to the familiar obscenities.

To the profanities.

To the sacrilege that yammers and heaves and strains scalding and ultimately melts down into inscrutable indictment of our collective faith.

The will to yowl and wail the compulsory constellations of obscene prayers.

 _Ah, god, fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah, yeah_.

We are repositories for this.

For this imperialism.

This received wisdom.

For...

For her palms on my hips; her body simply _rearing_ up against me.

"Y-you're such a fucking degenerate, Eri-"

"That would be _mom_ right now. I'm feeling _very_ maternal-"

"Raping your own daughter." With a laughter that's to invite only the infernal; a conjuration for the wickedest kami.

It is all depravity, isn't it?

It is all madness; there is nothing like _sanity_ here. There is not the materialist high priests' validation in the normative. There is only the body, the body, the body. Visceral; animal.

The taboo is not the quotidian; it merely _is_.

Another gradation in possibility.

In desire.

In...

In being _wreathed_ with Yuri's flesh; in Eri's tits in their heavy fulsome effusion settling over the shoulders, dragged through the spine's sweat-matted hair, stirring obsidian stripes into whirling transient sand-painting vicissitudes, wrought and broken and conjured and fissured and dwelling in nothing but the most delirious impermanence.

This is the allure.

It's there.

Isn't it?

Poised at the lips; a hunger that is to defy to defile to clutch in brutal iron paws and to grind under great steel paws every every _every_ morsel of that ideal named _control_.

The Kybernetik has broken, hasn't it?

Tyranny is little more than fantasy, than fiction.

It is to be a graceful crystal baton planted between a hydraulic press' great straining limbs.

It is to know your subjects' resentment; it is to taste your fellow Empress' envy. Their clamoring to savor the simple spectacle in your surrender, in your quiescence, to gorge themselves on grandiose delusions of conquest and immortality in _your_ failure.

It is to peer at one and one and know only fifteen.

Yes.

Yes.

To validate our wishful thinking.

 _You have fallen, and so I must never_.

Perhaps it is to fuel the simple elemental _necessity_ in this.

But this is for the Empress not to surrender, and not to fail, but only to know captivity in tyranny; to savor Yuri's thighs rearing up now, succulent and plump and lush and still oh so tight in muscle and fat's faintest painted caress, to _strain_ around me.

"Ran, Ran, y-you're so beautiful, and... And lookin' at Eri there is _so_ fuckin' weird. It's- it's... It's so _pretty_. Ah. Ah. I- I can't believe I'm getting _fucked_ again; only had two seriously shitty _guys_ in my life, an'- an' now I'm having three _women_ in one day.

"You're so huge. Y-you're _**way**_ better than Eri. S-sorry, Eri, but, like, it's just... What it is. An' stuff-"

"Oh, I can't really be _that_ upset." And there's a stillness; suddenly, suddenly, a devastating quietude.

An awareness that this must be the perfected theater that is nothing like the reality; it is our _ideal_ , to know the _Enola Gay_ 's engines in their merciless throb and bellow and bleat and roar simply swallowed in the sky's endless sapphire sprawl, dusted with the clouds' satiny curtains gathered not in modesty and not in shame and not in horror, but only as poise for the kami, for they have now betrayed us. They, who would shelter our sainted homeland from the Mongols, have glimpsed with awe and horror and revulsion the People of The Sun.

And visited upon Us a judgment.

A Reckoning.

Her name is Enola; she is forever alone.

It is self-evident, isn't it?

"In calling me by the strange name of Enola, I wonder if my dear departed parents received a glimpse of the future life of their child in a camera, speaking to them of her life of loneliness."

Lo, for we are forever alone.

We are always alone.

In this instant, we will taste the sublime loneliness in annihilation.

While the flame climbs higher, higher, higher, fueled with its own infernal immensity; while we have perhaps not wrought a surrogate sun but _lunged_ closer to this ideal, not a step taken but a great pole-vaulting leap. While the shadows are tattooed indelibly into the blasted bleached concrete.

Where the children will know baldness, and the adults will know absolutely nothing at all.

We, whose lives are but broken pieces of jade, but evanescent cherry petals in their glorious blossom.

We, who have wrought homes in perishable lumber and stone.

We, who cower before the great Eagle-Headed Colossus who now bestrides the world in titanium and the Stratofortress' roar.

Whose artillery will reach out.

Whose bombs will crunch through our homes.

Whose onslaught will flatter itself with convivial platitudes. Because we are to be made homeless to diminish our industrial productivity while the machinery struggles with even the most elementary rifling now, while our young girls already little more than baby-making bits of mechanistic tissues have been consigned to the most achingly amateurish industry.

Whether we survive this inferno is of little meaning.

But we have wrought our own diablerie, haven't we?

It is called 731.

It is called Nanking.

It is called Mukden.

It is Bangka Island.

It is Bataan.

We are not innocent.

We will weep tears of blood and smoke and dust and they will be drawn in radiological scars through our meat; our tissues will boil.

We will sneer and snap at the hibakusha.

They are living memory of an age better draped in amnesia.

And in this instant, I will know it.

Not the amnesia, but its genesis.

Not the explosion, but the moment when there is still innocence's delusion in this world. When it has been tasted in a place named Trinity; when a pretentious man has announced that he is become Death, Destroyer of Worlds. Or perhaps it is Time.

Or perhaps he had only, with generous awe, declaimed, _It worked!_

It works.

It will always work.

Because God or god or Gods and gods have never been so kind to shelter us from our wickedest compulsions.

Because we will suffer.

Because...

Because there is _heat_. Suddenly, oppressively, this infernal pall dragged over me, a tapestry steeped in boiling tea water.

A tremor and a shiver and slathered with sweat and it's to know not only Yuri- _chi_ 's embrace, her thighs dragged up now, fingers intertwined with hers and slipped away and pleading plucking and prising and knowing now her skin along the furrowed borderlands with her sweat-blackened stockings.

While her heat _swallows_ me.

And I am become that Heat, also.

My only regret is that we didn't finish it in time to use it on the Germans.

Yes.

The Japs, well, they didn't like it.

But the Germans...

"A-ah! Ah!" Screaming.

My screaming.

And Yuri- _chi_ 's, also.

And Yukiko's, glimpsed in demented Dutch-angle twists now, a seraphic figure, a spectacle of the beatific in her self-inflicted anguish.

Her suffering on a cross that she's wrought with her own assiduous labor.

Would the Romans have bought one of Isa's crosses, I wonder?

Or would it be Yeshu's?

Or Yeshua's?

Or?...

Or _That Dude From Nazareth_?

Would it have been with a sense of irony, or only assiduously implacable efficiency?

Trembling.

Fingers wheel in tortured shivering orbits around that pearl, but it's no relief when there is only a plea, a need to be filled.

To _fill_.

And I am.

Mom's palms simply _brazed_ hot and scalding and sticky with sweat to my hips.

"Y-you're raping me! You're raping me, mom! This's the only way I'll let you fuck me right now! It's- it's not because I'm asking you for it; you just need to do it, you fucking degenerate bitch!"

"A-ah!" Is that a _wail_ from Eri?

When her voice spears up to crazed breaking trilling operatic pitches?

"F-fuck, fuck, Ran, Ran-"

"You're raping me; you're raping me! It..." It's incredible. To know _this_.

To savor the perfection in being filled, and filling at once.

In impaling Yuri; a sublime stillness in her, pinned down, down, down, hips sodden with her, with _me_ , while mom's flesh is just...

Just _jabbed_ deeper, deeper.

Taut and clenching around her; knowing in a negative relief her own sensual blisses in the cock's huge thick helmeted head ground through and _filling_ those voids, the twists and kinks in the coils and...

And it's there.

 _Impaling_ me.

Her hips finding purchase on mine.

"You're so _tight_ , R-Ran. Fuck, fuck, d-do you even _let_ anyone in you?" A whimper; an articulated whimper. Her voice a husky trembling _presence_ beside my right ear, her hair mussed and still, still, fastened in that bitchy brutal tyrannical bun, speared with the chopsticks' bead-festooned elegances, tassel swaying with its lingering momentum while she's perfectly _still_ , trembling and every muscle drawn taut like a bow lurching to its snapping explosion. Her tits fall heavy on my spine; the universe arches and rears up and clamors only to surrender again to gravity's merciless groping presence.

"Never _raw_ , you fucking whore. You degenerate rapist. That's all you want, isn't it? A hot hole to fuck-"

"D-dammit, Ran, if you-"

"If I do _what_?" Crush her.

 _Grind_ around her.

And know its reflection in Yuri's lust.

In her sticky ambrosial hungers.

In her silence that's only language's abdication; that is _not_ perfect quietude, whimpers and sighs and shivers and deep hot guttural moans pluming up from her lips sticky and effulgent with gloss, with Yukiko, with me, with Eri, with...

With _this_.

Sweat and spittle and lust and cum.

And it's delectable.

Kneaded.

 _Mashed_ in her.

"I, it's-"

"If I do _what_ , you sleazy fucking degenerate lawyer? That's what you are; you're a _shame_ to your profession, you nasty slutty swinger-housewife _cunt_." The words are irresistible. "You've been infected with dad's poison, you know.

"You're as nasty as _he_ is." Clench.

 _Crush_.

Hips simply _twisted_ now with coiling demented frenzy like some nymphomaniac duckling.

"A-ah-"

"You're going to come _that_ soon? Do I need to add _premature ejaculator to this_ -"

"If- if you're gonna call me a rapist, I _will_ just rape the fuck out of you, you nasty petulant slut of a daughter!" Her palm's not a simple _slap_.

It's anguish.

Sudden; urgent; a _crushing_ lightning strike on my ass' left cheek.

Knowing the flesh's vast quavering tremor.

A sense of its orbit in its simple bulk.

And now the right.

And now her hips, _pounding_ me; dragged up and pushed down and it's for anything like control, like agency, to be abandoned.

Pulled up and away from Yuri- _chi_ and _heaved_ into her again.

Stroked.

Tugged.

Adored.

Slathered and smeared with her and there is only a fleeting interval in the room's sticky perfumed warmth's inexpressible chill before the flesh is devoured again.

And again.

And again.

 _Roaring_ with it. Uplifted; uplifted. And permitted to crash down again. It is not anything so elementary as merely being _manipulated_ ; it is not the puppeteer's elegances. It is not _technique_ that would awe a Czech puppetmaster. It is something cruder still.

It is to lace barbed wire sputtering with electricity through the shoulders, to stitch and fuse it into your nerves.

To tug and jerk and to brandish a machete to hack it away.

To fall.

To be _ravaged_ again with this merciless rust-encrusted iron filigree.

A wail.

A howl.

Mom's palms on my hips now without compunction, without shame, without reserve, without anything like fucking _patience_.

Jerking; pummeling; _pounding_ , her breath hot on my shoulders; lunging, her fingers scalding on my hips; hammering, her body simply flattened now against mine. A wisdom of flesh melting together. Swallowing her.

"You little _whore_ , Ran. What a delectable slut you are; what a _tremendous_ body I've made-"

"Y-you fucking _bitch_ , Eri. Eri. Mom. You're disea-ah!" A snarl; snap.

The combative perfection in this.

In her fingers twisted through heavy black hair; the wrist's jerk and my lips simply _snatched_ , stolen in dark dreamy delirium from Yuri's.

"Ngn... M-mom, you fucking _cunt_ -"

"You don't mind, do you? Taking a bit of your innocence like this? You weren't using it, anyway. A jaded girl like you." Heaving, pitching, lunging, plunging, pounding; an awareness of it gouging not merely deep but _deeper_ than should even be possible.

 _Hammered_ with an indelicate frenzy against that flesh that aspires to resist.

That clamors for more, more, more.

That would splay open, would admit her deeper still.

A heaving hot warble rearing up from your lips.

"M-mom, mom, you're-"

"Bottoming out in you, honey. So _this_ is how deep you can plumb _this_ delicious pussy, huh? Who knew it'd be so delicate; who knew it'd be so small, so _tight_. I- I thought you'd be a little more experienced than _this_.

"You're always the _top_ , huh?" A brutality; cold, mesmeric.

A tantalizing insanity in all of it; in Yuri's mouth dragged up now to fasten itself around my throat. The archetypal plunging poise warped and twisted and distended and it's for her elegances to be craned into a straining half-seated posture; for her palms to twist to support herself; for mom's hips still, still, still, to persevere in their relentless pummeling.

Not merely planted between them but _swallowed_.

Their hunger is an apparition.

Dark.

Dreadful.

Inhaling everything. Consumed.

"Yes." There is only an answer; there can only _be_ an answer. It is this.

Yes.

Yes.

Dwelling in The Republic of Yes.

The Democratic Tyrant's Republican People's Autocratic Autarky of Prime Minister for Life, Her Excellency, Her Most Sainted, Her Most Exalted, Heroine of The Nation, Steward of The Righteous Path, Benefactress to The Benighted, The Helmswoman, Our Sainted Divinity, Our Mother, Who Art in...

Yes.

Yes.

Shuddering now with Eri's violences; with the simple triumphantly elegant brutality in it. Hammering; pounding; an awareness of the flesh and fat and meat in their sumptuous taut confluence thrashing and spasming and _quivering_ with her. With her body's endless clutching hunger; and it's something so so so fucking unreal. Fingers grope and pluck and there's only an elemental impotence; only an irresistible surrender to _this_.

To _her_. Dragged not away from Yuri but only surrendering to her, because this is what will has become. It is to know the attenuated agency, the perfected dictatorship, in a practiced elegantly honed tyrant; in a glorious glamorous beast; in a horror in skewering stilettos whose long long shapely legs strain with muscle that's not quite raw chiseled hypertrophy but still an invitation to muscle fetishery.

She is beautiful; the strength is something not merely irresistible but denies a simple ambition to it. Flesh pulsates, strains, heaves; it is to know dictatorship's truest essence. Bread and circuses; yes, yes, yes, because I am encircled, and I am devoured, and I am _swallowed_ ; dragged deep, deeper than deep, _plunged_ down into Yuri- _chi_ and serenaded with her warbles and howls and whimpers and mewls and delighted with shivering hot skin slick with sweat and curtained with artful fabrics and mom's fingers grope at my wrists, hands not _optional_ but _**not**_. None, none, none. Pulled up and _slapped_ against her hips straining out with her spine's crazed arch.

"O-oh, fuck, fuck, Eri, Eri, m-mom, you're-"

"Raping you, honey. Just like you'd wanted; just like you'd _ordered_. Pounding your luscious soft pussy; it's so so _so_ hot. I... Ngn..." Gasping; roaring; snarling; snapping.

Her voice a hot wet shudder beside my left ear.

"It's delicious, you know. Your skin." Tongue lolling out to _spurt_ through the sweat. "Ah... If I were _really_ being impolite, I'd come inside you _right_ _ **now**_." Fuck.

Fuck.

"I could, you know, honey. I could just come in an _instant_. But that'd be _so_ rude, wouldn't it? The _worst_ etiquette!"

"A-ah! Ah!" Screaming; screaming; there's only screaming. Mine. Yuri's.

And there's...

There's complicity.

 _Conspiracy_. Suddenly, suddenly, it's no longer to know Yuri- _chi's_ flesh in its fine soft tremors, supine and peering up at me with glazed-over eyes; not even half-upright. Simply _twisted_ around me.

"F-fuck, fuck, fuck, Ran, this's so amazing. I can _feel_ Eri through you, y'know. It's amazing-"

"T-traitor. Traitor! Ah! You're both fucking _raping_ me!" Yes, yes, yes. The words are brutal. A simple delirium in this.

In this transgression.

Perversion.

I can't care; can't aspire to anything like _interest_ in anything but this. Pounded between them; not even seesawing oh so gracefully but only ricocheting between their hips with wet sputtering flesh's relentless sordid reverberation.

Again.

Again.

Again.

"I- I'm gonna _come_ , mom! Y-you're gonna-"

"Oh, you're going to _come_? While your own _mother_ 's raping your nasty pussy-"

"N-not my pussy; not my pussy." It's a giggle; a trilling madcap sonic psychosis. "I- I've already done that. M-my cock; I'm gonna come in her-"

"Then we'll need to do _something_ about that." Dragged; pulled; _wrenched_ out. It's...

It's not fucking fair.

Hips shivering and arching and _bucking_ like a deranged chihuahua.

"M-mom, you fucking _whore_ -"

" _You_ are my whore right now, you little bitch." It's just... It transcends anything like cruelty.

 _Slapped_ down on the mattress; no longer on your knees but only your belly, twisted and jerked and pulled and wrenched and there's oppression, surrender.

"Eat her out; eat out your delicious little girlfriend while I fuck your nasty hole, Ran- _chaaan_. Ah. Ah. Ah. I've always wanted to do this; I've always wanted to pound your filthy pussy 'til you _wept_ , you naughty arrogant _haughty_ cunt-"

"W-what about you, you fucking narcissistic slut?! It's always been my fantasy to rape _you_ 'til you sob! I'll break you, mom, you fucking cunt!" It is not protest; it is not surrender. It is not reality; it is not fiction, either.

It is the symbolist autobiography; it is the surrealist confessional.

My eyes are not sodden with tears, but only admire the universe in the waters' gradations. The sacral waters and those sulfurous with the land of wind and water's conception of purity, hot and stained with brimstone wickedness.

They are beautiful; _both_ are beautiful.

Pounded; hammered down down down into the mattress' plump fabric.

It is to know a marshmallow in the supremest relief; the most delicious detail.

I am not one of those who know watermelons carnally.

I will not peer up with battered _surrendering_ eyes, pleading for mercy. And there is the wisdom of heels rasping at the mattress; of thighs splayed apart, savoring the intimacy, the _immediacy_ , in adoring the furrows torn into the creamy skin.

Her pussy still weeps frothing slick hungers; Eri's lusts. Eri's. Eri's. And it's there, there.

"A-ah, Ran, Ran, this's, this's, uh, ah, this's, like, so fuckin' weird, an'- an' I want it-"

" _Make_ her eat you, Yuri- _chan_. Don't make the mistake of just surrendering and _begging_ for permission; it sets a bad precedent for relationships." Mom's voice guttural, brutal.

Her tongue swept out like an anteater's along my ear; and this is its essence, isn't it? The termites in their blind idiot panic, their comfortable universe invaded with the cataclysmic, with the apocalyptic, terrorized and tormented with something that plunges and intrudes and tears and eats and eats and eats with absolute impunity, without recourse, without repercussion.

"A-ah, ah, this's... This's so weird. W-while her mom's railing her with- with a magic cock-"

"It _is_ magic. Taoist alchemy, you know. C'mon, Ran. Ran. You little _whore_ ; don't be such a selfish little slut. Use your magic tongue on your girlfriend." Fingers simply tangled like a propeller twisted through seaweed in my hair; a pull, a jerk, a _wrench_.

Pain.

Sharp.

Skewering through the scalp.

"Push out your tongue; _push_ out your tongue. I never gave you the discipline you _needed_ when you were a little girl, you know, Ran- _chan_." A hiss like a broken teakettle. "You nasty little _cunt_. C'mon; c'mon.

"Eat her; eat her; eat her. Eat your soft sweet little girlfriend-"

"Y-yeah, yeah, Ran, c'mon."

"Pull her hair; _don't be **nice**_. That's not _nice_. It's cruel to be kind, y'know, Yuri- _chan_. C'mon." Mom's admonition is madness.

And there's only a plea for it.

You will never submit to this; you will never _surrender_ to this point with anything like conscious quiescence. It is a wish for more, more, more.

"Y-you fucking _whore_ , m-aahn..." An _ahn_.

"Oh, oh, oh, listen to _that_ , Yuri- _chan_. An _ahn_. It's so adorable, isn't it?" Slowly, slowly, slowly, a simple _violence_ in pulsating hunger, straining, rearing, _bloating_ ; her cock, fuck, fuck, the unreality in the reality, the impossibility in the possibility _there_ , flaring against those walls that're more a diabolic trapped horror, crushing and clenching around her, an irresistible and implacable frenzy.

Hips twisted with sumptuous sinuous electricity against the mattress.

And Yuri- _chi_ 's flesh is _there_.

Lips splayed.

"Lick me; lick me; lick me. I- I wanna come _so_ bad; even- even more. You made me come like I couldn't believe with- with your _girlcock_ , Ran- _chan_. Ran. Ran. You're so beautiful like this; on your belly while your mom fucks you.

"I can't believe it." With eyes humongous, wrenched open and glazed and simply _crazed_. A fundamental psychosis in hunger. In her fingers displacing Eri's; in a _pull_ that is not quite the urgent brutal violence, but still, still, it dwells in its universe.

A jerk.

"Lick me, lick me, Ran. Ran. I want it-"

"Yes. Yes." Tongue not merely offered but simply taken, rolling out in a velvet rich carpeting to lap and flick and flicker and swarm and wheel over her; to taste and taste and taste; to lavish yourself with the flavor and the texture and the sticky hot mawkishness in cum and her native aroma and the sublimity that's a woman's body.

Pumped; pumped; to know her lips not merely kissed but _clasped_ on mine; grinding, quickly, impatient, legitimately insane.

"Y-you're gonna punish me for this; I know you are, Ran. I- I don't care anymore. I- I was watchin' you fuck Yukiko's face, and I needed it. I- I wanna... I wanna... I wanna come; I wanna come so bad. I wish I could come on _your_ face, too.

"Your dark skin's so sweet. I- I wanna... I..." Ground against my chin; it's to be captured, seized, _snarled_ in a merciless pummeling tempest, heaved against the shore and dragged back again with an implacable undertow. "I'm gonna come! I'm gonna come! I- I'm gonna-"

"Do it. You should come; fuck my nasty wayward daughter's face. Do it. Do it. I- ah, ah, _ah_ , fuck, yes, yes." It is our essence, isn't it?

To serenade ourselves with these sumptuous obscenities.

These sacrilegious prayers.

Knowing the drowning delirium in being plunged between Yuri's thighs again, again, again. A universe of softnesses.

Lust.

Lust.

There is nothing but _lust_.

"I- I'm..."

"I'm gonna _come_!" This is my voice, isn't it? Rearing up; _springing_ through the sodden sticky swelter twisting and coiling and threading around me. "I'm gonna come-"

"Ah, ah, _ah_. No, you're not, Ran- _chan_. You're not going to come on the mattress; you are _not_ going to waste that delicious lust that I've given you. Don't be _irresponsible_."

Again, again, her fingers find purchase in my hair.

 _Dragged_ away; slapped onto my spine. A tremor and a shiver and there is only darkness now; _mantled_ , little more than a mare for Yuri whose flesh drapes and encircles and it's perfection, her fingers slapped at my tits, kneading, groping, clutching.

"Ah- ah, ah, Ran, Ran, it's... I wanna come _so_ badly; I keep coming, but it's never enough. Neee-ever. Never ever ever _ever_. I wanna suck you, too." Wrenching, craning.

A kiss.

A kiss.

It's there; that ridiculous manic crazed flesh. Quavering, drawn taut, the head effulgent even absolutely bare of anything but its own shimmering syrupy juices with a brilliance like oiled stone. It's beautiful; a glance between her thighs, and it's a delectation, admiring her tits' heavy succulent fall.

Her body; her belly's graceful sleek roundness and her tongue simply darting out.

Twisting.

Coiling around me with serpentine madness.

All is insanity.

"I- I wanna-"

"You are _not_ going to make my daughter come like _that_ , Yuri- _chan_." Mom is monstrous, isn't she? That diabolic colossal thick thing just... Just suddenly _conjured_ ; a silhouette like a ballistic missile gathering there, prodding at Yuri's lovely plump pussy.

Jabbed down; ground at my cheek.

"Ran, you're _not_ going to deny Yukiko- _tan_ a little relief, are you? Because her mouth is _still_ full; it should be even fuller. Wouldn't _you_ love to see that, Yuri- _chan_?" So fucking knowing.

That heavy guttural husky snarl.

"Ngn... N-now, that's just unfair, Eri. That's just unfair." Yuri's whine an achingly adorable protest; and still, still, no longer _only_ the adorable.

Hot.

Flinty with lust's addling twisting insanities.

Pulled away. Both of them.

It isn't fair.

Isn't fair.

Palms _clapped_ on my tits.

Mine.

Beseeching.

"I want it! I need to fucking _come_ , dammit!"

Yes. Insanity. Madness; the most delirious and delicious and simply inexpressible psychosis. This is its essence; its expression is in perversion, is in a wickedness that's only affront, only sacrilege, to Ayumi's hypocritical dogma.

Fingers fastened around it.

It's...

It's _there_ ; it's something authentic. Not merely fantasy; not a simple plastic sexuality, a manufactured industrial figment. No, no, no. It's flesh; flesh and blood and meat and it's a sense that it should be a bone, also. Stern; harder than merely _hard_. Straining and quivering and convulsive.

"Ah- ah, ah, if- if _you_ bitches won't make me-"

"Hold her arm, won't you, Yuri?" Mom's more than diabolic; Yuri is more than wicked in her complicity.

"N-no. No. What the hell?!" Warmth; succulent soft skin; fingers laced around my underarms. Yuri's tits and mom's in their delirious plump effusion clamped against me. A wreathing marshmallow haze.

A profound unfairness.

I will gorge myself upon the marshmallow.

It is my will to taste the wine undiluted.

"W-why're you two _doing_ this?" Standing, standing, heels slipping again in their thick groaning schoolgirl patent leather over the carpeting. Not quite borne aloft; only shackled. Only bound to them; to the collective strength in Eri's sinewy vigor and even Yuri's lust-lubricated fanaticism.

And mine is a frailty in this; in the quivering knees; in the shuddering flesh.

"O-oh, oh, why're you bitches doing this?! Both of you. I wanna come; you won't _let_ me. It's not fair."

"It's for _Yukiko-_ _ **tan**_ , you know, honey." Mom's voice an achingly elegant _sigh_ into my ear, dipping, craning. "You can't just _neglect_ her. She's barely been touched. Look at her. You've just been ignoring her.

"She'll develop a complex. Noblesse oblige. Remember?" Yes. Yes.

The...

The top-heavy caramel elegance simply _wilted_ in her genuflection; the cum in its thickly wadded effusion has only grown more, and more, and more, _straining_ up against pertly pursed lips.

A frothing bubbling enormity; fingertips settle on lips like cream-dappled magnolia flowers. Slipping open, oh so patiently, head craned back; a zeal for brandishing this. A fervor for _accentuating_ its rubbery thickness, its simple density that defies anything like _belief_ , like reality. Immense; huger than huger than huger than huge.

Humongous.

Ah.

It is.

It is.

The flesh merely _trembles_ with it; with this inscrutable visceral _fervor_ for the simple aesthetic, for the wisdom that it's mine, and mom's, but it wouldn't matter, would it? _Whose_ it is. It is only the wisdom of the erotic; it is only Eros' kiss; only Athena's madness, her finer reasoning abdicating, and Aphrodite's Spanish Fly frenzy.

It's an awareness of something deeper still.

Eris.

Her mad brother, nude and steeped in the blood that is not the fallen and not the victorious, because this is not the point. It is only _blood_.

All is blood.

All is lust.

It's shuddering, scribing berserk thrashing orbits; mom's, also, with unpretentious zeal.

"If you'll be a _good_ girl, I think you'll _love_ the gift I'll give you, honey. _If_ you'll be a good girl. I was pleading to _drench_ your delicious hot pink pussy, too, but _I'm_ not whining-"

"I don't _care_. I just- I want-"

"Maybe Yuri will be _so_ obliging to stand between us. Ngn... I can think of something for her to do. Can't you, Yuri- _chan_?" Mom is wicked.

Yuri is wicked.

All are wicked.

We are evil; deliriously and ebulliently evil.

"Would you care for even _**more**_ , Yukiko- _tan_?" And there only answer is the eyes inflamed, the cum-spattered lips trembling with an expectation transcending expectation. A simple fucking _need_ for more. "I can see _that_. Now, if you won't just _lose_ your mind, I think you'll love it.

"Won't you, Ran- _tan_?"

"D-don't call me that-"

"Don't be a fucking _brat_." It's incredulity; the absolutely _impossible_. With fingers rearing up, _twisted_ around the throat.

My throat.

Dimpling the skin.

Not suffocation but only a quick transient breathlessness.

"Isn't it _incredible_ , Ran- _tan_? To just... Surrender?"

"N-never surrendering-"

"Don't you _dare_ ruin all _your_ work and ours by just fucking the cum out of her mouth. I've been waiting to see something like _this_ for an eternity, you know. I don't really mind, oh, the _snowballing_ spectacle with Yukiko- _tan_ , but how often can I find another lovely beauty like you, like Yuri, who'll be receptive to it?

"Men _appall_ me. Fucking her delicious soft holes when they're just _boiling_ with jizz is one point; actually needing to taste it is, ah, another. But this is absolute perfection, isn't it? Isn't this delicious juice absolutely inexpressibly _sweet_?"

"Y-yes-"

"Then you'll appreciate it even _more_ when she has quite the thick mouthful to just _gulp_ down, won't you?" Something garrulously depraved in its onomatopoeia.

 _Gokkun_. _Gokkun_.

"A-ahn, mom, it's just... I- I want to fuck her, to fuck Yuri, to fuck _you_ -"

"You've already _swarmed_ me with your virgin load." It's something so unpretentiously pornographic, isn't it?

 _Virgin load_.

But there's no chortling over the porno manga nonsense.

It's only to know the juices still swirling, still _slithering_ down her thigh, staining pallor with cream in its heavy frothing effusion.

A glance at it; a delectation in this.

To know _my_ lust.

Hers pouring from Yuki.

Idealized reality inverted.

"Ngn... I- I wanna _come_ , mom, Yuri-"

"I'll help you, Ran. Please. Please. Please. This- I _really_ love this kind of... Of _cum-worshiping_ stuff, I guess. I can't help myself. I always kind of want to be disgusted over it, y'know, 'cause I don't exactly like _guys_." Yuri's eyes huge.

No longer shackled with her arms' straining ambition to strength; only her palms splayed out over my bare belly. Falling down, down, down.

"Your cock is _so_ huge; it's so beautiful. It's, like, it's just _shiny_ , y'know. Y'look like you're about to, um, jizz your brains out-"

"'cause I _am_. I can't think. I can't think about anything. I want to let it all out-"

"Then _I'll_ stroke you; you and your mom at the same time. Whaddaya think?" Beseeching.

"Y-you've just fantasized about this, haven't you, Yuri- _chi_?" Indictment.

What is to be said but this?

"Uh- _huh_. I- I always... I mean, I have fantasies about bein', like, y'know, the _guest of honor_ at a bukkake, but, most of the time? It's bein' the fluffer or helper or whatever, so I can just... Just _watch_ it all spray out over a chick's face.

"To watch her get _all_ filthy. It's always girlcock when I fantasize about it. 's what fantasy's about. Right?" Swallowing, swallowing, a thick trembling bulk straining through her throat. "C'mon, Ran-"

"A-all right, all right. I'll do it. I just want to _come_." Insanity.

It's all insanity.

Yukiko finally closer, closer, closer, and in an instant the compunction's forgotten. It's only to know the elemental _perfection_ in this; in Yuri- _chi_ 's voluptuous proportions, the delicious shape in its sumptuousness softness rearing up on high high high dazzlingly fucking _high_ heels. Vertiginous.

Her fingers a sibilance on mom's skin.

On mine.

Slow languorous jerks.

Yukiko's fingers outstretched, also; a few droplets plucked from her mouth's huge creamy morass, painted over mom's flesh, and mine. Brushed with artful grace; with whimsical maundering orbits along the flesh more than _bloated_ now. Straining against the skin's very dimensions.

An awareness of the simple cruelty in the body's shackling geometries. You can only mourn, can only _bemoan_ , those boundaries.

A will and a wish to _scream_.

"Ngn... I- I wish she'd... I've always wondered, you know. J-just like Yuri- _chi_." The words are mine. There can be nothing like mendacity here.

It is perhaps the supremest interrogation. Why bother with torture's cruelties when you can simply inflict this _denial_ on the flesh's frailest facet, its weakest most egregious fucking defect? It isn't isn't isn't isn't _isn't_ fair at all.

"T-to push myself into that cum, into all the spittle, j-just feel it so fucking _hot_ around me-"

"Be patient, Ran- _chan_." Mom's...

Mom's mouth so graceful.

Craning, twisting, a kiss settling on my lips.

An act of consumption.

Swarmed with them.

Mom's fingers laced up up up through my hair; an awareness of another hand cradling Yukiko's cheek.

"Ngn... M-mom, mom-"

"When you're going to come-"

"I think I'll _know_ when she's going to come. I can feel it. Both of you; both of you feel like you're _more_ than close. It's- it's so fucking _insane_." Yuri's is a delirium, a giggling cooing sense of incredulity with this. "This is the _weirdest_ thing I've ever done.

"All my imagination feels so fuckin' small and, like, just... Porno- _boring_ , y'know? Like I just sorta-kinda _bought_ it. I- I never thought-"

"Shh..." Dragged away now, tongues twisted together, still laced with one another before parting is a an irrevocable rupture. "Shhh, Yuri- _chan_." Eri's command irresistible. I want you to _really_ stroke her. Hard. Harder than just _hard_.

"Jerk it 'til she's just _melting_ , Yuri- _chan_ -"

"She already _is_. It's-"

It's here.

Yes.

Yes.

More than _affirmation_.

It's to know its passage, already rearing up, and there's only the simple unreality in it. In knees whose quaver is a gelatin San Andreas; in the belly's upending churn; in the body convulsive, coruscating with that sensual neuron madness. In the spasms that rear up and devour and it's to know a thermonuclear flower, yes, yes, that could only be its essence, its great incendiary petals immense arms outstretched through the universe, ripping and rending and tearing and scalding and _charring_ and I am little but ash now.

Patience.

Sanity.

Lightning _spears_ through every inch. It's not a few simple anemic throbs; it's not mere anatomy; it's not the banal biology. It's a universe of sensation laced and stitched and filigreed and embroidered through every _inch_. It's curling toes and trembling fingers and a manga conviction that hair's a half-second from rearing upright while Aryan Blond seams its every reach.

It's a scream.

A howl.

It's eyes absolutely transfixed with this, because it _must_ be; because this would be an irredeemable disgrace, an act of inexpressible wickedness, to _fail_ this. Not to peer with unblinking awe at the delectation in this; in Yukiko's lips twisted apart, her jaw wrenched open, long long fine sleek soft fingers tugging squeezing a regular rhythmic pulsation around flesh boiling and broiling and roaring and heaving and it's absolutely incredible to know this.

To savor the symmetry in Yuri's hand's quick tug once and again and again over mom's and...

And it's rearing up.

An explosion; a fucking _cannon_. Heavy cohesive threads unfurling, payed out in thick quivering nacreous cables, lunging through the bubbling sea foam froth the creamy hot sodden effusion that's already coalescing behind her lips' pallid wisteria.

Once. Again. Again. Gathering; clotting; more and more and more and it's absolutely cohesive _perfection_ , an unvarnished unbroken immediacy in its sexuality, unfiltered through anything. Only here.

Here.

Cups.

Gallons.

Who could aspire even to _care_ about the measures? Huge; this is the only meaningful dimensions. Quivering tentacles have simply slopped out of their own volition, displaced with the newest cum's bulk.

Quaking; shuddering; and now, now-

"Ahn!" Eri's voice, pealing up, tolling out, a scream, a screech, a perfection, a fulfillment.

Gratifying that _mom_ 's discipline is as sincere as her professional integrity.

"I- I'm- I'm gonna- j-just-"

"Here, here, Eri- _chan_." Yes, yes, yes, Yuri- _chi_ 's is now an unchallenged tyranny; retreating, retreating, not vitiated but only an unobtrusive presence. Tugging, pulling, jerking, wringing. Wrenching it from me.

Undiminished; unconstrained; another vast ropey thread and another and another and it's not fucking _stopping_. Eri's flesh guided, urged closer and closer and closer to Yukiko's mouth. Cream melts into icy pallor; white upon white upon white.

Upon eggshell.

Staining the velvet sunset elegances in her skin's native complexion.

"Ngn..." This is the answer while the cum simply gathers, puddles, _pools_ with an effusion that could probably be a reasonable sea burial for an AV actress. More, more, more.

And there is no resistance.

Discipline, yes.

The cum simply overflowing; not swallowed, not swallowed, but only permitted to gather more and more and more, and there's an immediate and irresistible enchantment with its vastness, its enormity, rearing up like artillery crashing through a kiddie pool, slopping over her cheeks, bifurcated strands racing down the jaw and coalescing again in a thick quivering bead on the chin.

A sharp wet _patter_ on an outstretched palm.

"Ngn... _'shooogooo_."

Yes.

Yes.

More.

More.

More.

And there's only...

Not an _end_.

Simply a tap turned.

Finished.

Stopped.

But the electricity perseveres; the electricity is a fucking immortality; is a need to lurch and rear up into Yuri's caress. Into fingers that have become their own novel dominions in control, in tyranny, in sexual perfection.

"Ngn... A-ah, ah, Yuri- _chi_ , Yuri, Yuri, I- I'm going _insane_ ; it's- it's so fucking _intense_. So... I- I can't take it anymore-" This senseless jabbering refrain, this tribute and plea fountaining from your numb tortured lips scrawling with Ol' Sparky's caress.

"D-do you _really_ not have any experience with a man, girl? Fuck. _Fuck_." Eri's patience something altogether, oh, _less_ practiced than even mine.

A palm _slapped_ at Yuri's wrist.

"It _hurts_ ; it's like stroking your clit after you've had a brain-melting orgasm-"

"Good. I _love_ it when it's that intense." Palm simply _cradling_ Eri's now; twisted with mischievous brutal zeal around the peak, that huge helmeted head ground kneaded gnashed and mine, also, and...

"Y-yeah, Yuri- _chi_ -" Drag her up.

 _Devour_ her lips.

There is nothing like patience now; nothing like restraint.

"Mom, _please_ , won't you?" Hands pulled away; Yuri's for _my_ flesh alone, fingers fanned over my chest. Adored; stroked; an absentminded idle caress. "Please, won't you? W-won't you lavish it on Yuri, also?

"It _really_ wouldn't be fair-"

"Since when are _you_ so troubled with fairness, daughter?" It's fair.

Profoundly unfair in its simple fairness.

"But, well, who cares? It's not as if I _wouldn't_. Come here, Yuri- _chan_. Come here." An invitation; a maternal beckoning with arms outstretched. "Come here, darling. You'll _love_ it."

"I- I know I will." It is not trepidation adorning Yuri's face.

Madness.

Hunger.

A lust surpassing anything language could ever quite aspire to capture. And it is something so fucking _facile_ ; it is to deny ritual's most elemental essence, its recondite pageantries to accentuate to its practitioners a fundamental meaning, a grandeur, in its excess.

It is religion's essence.

The truth, the theology, it is never conceived for the throng.

It is not to be known; the Priest will administer his sermon in Slavonic, in Latin, in Ancient Greek. In tongues that will bedevil the slavish congregation in their unscholarly illiterate vernacular; the Bible must not be read in its humility.

It is to steward this.

To _tyrannize_ this knowledge.

Religion is not democracy.

This is its essence inverted, denied.

Brutalized and broken.

Fingers outstretched. And in an instant, nestled between Yuri- _chi_ 's thighs, it's to know the realities betrayed; the secrets are disclosed; the _truths_ that must never be bared to the unwashed throng, to the uninitiated, are simply denied their curtaining enigma.

Mystery has vanished.

It is here.

The fingers' languid twist, and it's simply coalescing. Eyes immense, transfixed; it is nothing so prosaic as mere _admiration_.

This is not the word.

It is astonishment.

It is _envy_.

Cultivation.

The Taoist ideal.

Wuwei.

There is recrimination.

There is perhaps a snarling bristling consternation that Ayumi's madnesses taste vindication in this.

It is not religion; no, no.

This is simply _faith_.

Magic.

Alchemy.

Flesh coaxed from the ether; not from chemistries in their strange domestic conjurations but something ineffable. Prised from the air, from breath, from qi, from... From whatever it is to be; from whatever it _must_ be.

It is not layer upon layer.

It _is_.

In an instant.

A tremor.

A gasp.

Something _humongous_.

"Isn't it beautiful, Ran- _chan_?" Eri's lips limn a smile whose darkness could eclipse suns, could swallow every season into imperishable night.

"W-whoa. Lookit... R- _Ran_ , is this as huge as it looks?" Yuri's eyes flitting down.

Up.

And down again.

Pleading for validation.

"I- I mean, y'know, it's- the one _you_ gave me was, uh, was pretty big, but... But this looks like a fuckin' _coke_ can. And it's so _long_."

Yes.

Cartoonish.

Comic.

"I thought she'd, ah, profit from a _very_ fluffy ladycock, also. Isn't it beautiful, Ran- _chan_?" Mom's...

It's a ninja elegance.

Something archetypal; something _quintessential_.

Vanishing behind me; fingers settle on my shoulders.

"Isn't it incredible, Ran- _chan_?" Hot breath on my cheek.

"Y-yeah." Pulsating.

Immense.

A sleek taut _ruddy_ delirium; a delectation in that strange rarefied virgin flesh. The head bloated, swollen, surpassing immense, rearing beyond anything that isn't a man's idiotic overcompensating fantasy. It's _beautiful_ ; tight skin and shuddering warmth and...

And it's to know the elemental _fascination_ in this.

"W-whoa, it's... I can feel every _breath_. I... I wanna..." Eyes _fall_ to Yukiko's lips. "I wanna fuck all of the cum in her mouth; I wanna know what it feels like; I wanna _paint_ her-"

"Ah, ah, _ah_." Mom is the true tyrant, isn't she?

Is there anything like competition?

 _Could_ there be?

Age?

Experience?

Cunning?

Villainy?

Connivance?

"I don't _think_ so, little Yuri- _chaaan_. Because that would just be... Such an outrageous abuse of the trust I've _just_ lavished on you." Eri's voice is judgment; is the divine's brutal peal through the ears. Is not fingers, and not hands, but only a simple insurmountable conviction. "There's something _else_ for us to do.

"I think even my daughter, _truculent_ as she is," and it is not a jab; only a needling tease, toothpick acupuncture, "Can agree that, well... It would just be _wicked_ for this to be our only meeting. Because I think we have quite the chemistry.

"Right, Yukiko- _tan_?" A glance down at the beauty in her demented flooded genuflection; adoring the sticky tendrils reaching out, racing up, plunging down down down, negative furrows gathering in the creamy stripes bubbling over dusky skin. There is no ambition to an answer; the eyes are candider than any language.

There is not a nod; there is nothing but a simple roiling exuberance.

"Are you going to swallow it, Yukiko- _tan_? I think _ **everyone**_ 's been waiting for that. Right?" And it is not for the madness to break. No. No.

It is not the thermidor.

It is only its deepening; it is only its heightening; it is only its _intensifying_. More, and more, and more.

Eyes gathering like roosting mockingbirds.

Howling.

Heaving.

Crazed.

We will stare.

Leer.

Fingers find purchase on Yuri's shoulders now; and Eri's will not quite mine. Heavy soft breasts simply _flatten_ against my shoulders. There is a wisdom of heat; there is an awareness in her fingers coiling, twisting, _vanishing_ into my tits' heavy lavish flesh.

Yes.

 _Luscious_.

Delicious.

Fingers clutch at Yuri; adore her belly's elegant roundness; finally, finally, finally, easing down, down, down. Cradle it.

Taste its belief-beggaring weight.

Its titanic heft.

It's _incredible_ ; more than merely incredible. And Yukiko is self-evidently an actress, whatever the qualifiers, B-grade or amateurish or only another vacuous idol. She _is_ beautiful; it's a preening self-conscious unselfconsciousness. A perfection.

Tongue spearing up through the vast thick clotted bulk; cream stains strawberry. Swept and wheeling and twisting and there is a dancer's grace, a quality like a figure skater's strange silhouette, a negative presence, whirling and quivering and quaking and bouncing and hurtling through its colossal bulk. A squelch; a sputter; a simple wet _madness_.

And it's not a drain opened.

It's achingly slow.

Savoring its every thick trembling mote.

One droplet.

And the next; her throat is a more lavish, more absolute, more _eloquent_ a flourish than any whispering hot perfumed soliloquy. Everything is conveyed, all articulated, in _that_ ; in the flesh's deliberate patient displacement; in the tremor and quiver and it's being worked down, down, down. Fingers grope and cinch around Yuri.

Lips nestle in the heavy satin hair that's simply slathered itself on her skin.

A kiss.

Adore her, adulate her, with every brush and caress.

Yes.

Yes.

It's incredible.

Falling down, down, down, a pelican's hunger.

Gurgling with it.

Shivering.

Cooing.

"Ngn..." And...

And it's finished.

At once, at once, the dregs simply bitten back, frothing and thick and the last vestiges quivering effervescent in her throat's sumptuous fuchsia depths. Craning closer, and closer, and closer, animated with an inexpressible clutching _need_ for more, more, more.

Need more.

"Aaaaaaah. See? Yukiko- _tan_ swallowed it _**all**_! Ngn! All of Yukiko- _tan_ 's mistresses are _so_ lovely; they put out _so_ much sweet delectable cum. An' I wonder how big an' thick a load is in _this_ thing." Fingers coiling up up up under Yuri's colossal bulk.

"You'll need to learn with _another_ mouth now, Yukiko- _tan_. I think it's _finally_ , _**finally**_ time to take out the plugs. Don't you?" Eri closer, closer, closer. Not with fingers twisted in Yukiko's hair but only delicately brushing fingertips and brutal garnet nails under her chin.

Rising.

Rising.

Levitation; there is a kiss, slow and lush and soft and there is something... Something _exotic_ declaimed in this.

An ideal that should long since have been cast away with love's debris, its bitter brittle detritus, into half-remembered moments wrought in nuptial rancor.

But it doesn't matter. No, no, no.

"I think it's time. Shouldn't the birthday girl have her cake _first_?" Eri's fingers irresistible; Yukiko eased oh so delicately now onto the mattress, curvaceous thighs slipped apart with clutching importuning caresses.

Yes.

Yes.

"I- I guess it _is_ my birthday today, huh? Or at least, like, _this_ thing's birthday." Yuri's eyes would devour universes.

Her lust could swallow suns.

There is only a will for more.

More.

More.

More.

This is our refrain.

This is our wisdom.

This is our need. And there's only awe; only a fundamental astonishment, peering at that monstrous heaving bulk, that deliriously deliciously beautiful juxtaposition that isn't at all. There is a perfected symmetry in this; it is only disbelief's force, only preconception's throttling immensity, that could aspire to corrupt and corrode the elemental elegance in this.

In her legs' shapely height; in her belly's fine trim roundness; in the breasts' generous heft, nipples prickling in upturned allure, a peach delectation against Yamato Nadeshiko creaminess. There is only a will to admire this. To peer with awe, with a gawping delirium at the spectacle in flesh, in humanity, in _this_.

Yes, yes, yes. The score is not J-pop but Wagnerian opera; not the Götterdämmerung but Walkürenritt, lovely, oh so delicious. She must rise; she must soar; she must take flight. And this is her sainted spear, isn't it? An awareness that _this_ should be the Walküre's guise, yes, yes, for she is celestial jurist without appeal. Her will is absolute; the slain are dragged from battle's clamor and its brutality and there is no mendacity and no calumny in this.

She cannot be inveigled into indulgence; there is no disingenuousness that will persuade her. She is violence and she is compassion; she is beauty in its most elemental essence. It is to transcend in allure's embrace; it is not blonde and not a raven-maned elegance; no, no, no. It surpasses these vicissitudes. It is not armor; the Walküre's war is metaphysical. It is to know reality's boundaries splintering; life is to be throttled in its last shriveling moments, and death driven away, also, with the great lance's violences, coruscating with hungry lightning.

She is the New Conqueror; the warrior must know only humility in her embrace.

She is beautiful.

I am awed.

She is beautiful.

I will tremble with a hungry beseeching admiration when the eyes flit from hers in their glazed-over hot bubbling onyx to the flesh in its immensity, straining beyond its very biologic boundaries, swollen, and while Eri has become tour guide, has become educator for this virginal delirium. There is no ambition of a bit of plastic indulgence capturing this in its fullest intensity.

She is still the neophyte, still the naïf clamoring for tutelage, and mom's eyes are an irresistible command.

"Closer; come closer, won't you, Yuri- _chan_? And, _you_ , daughter of mine, I _hope_ you'll have the decorum _not_ just to shoulder aside your lovely girlfriend and indulge yourself." It's oh so wry, ain't it, that brutal little quirk animating her lips.

Twisting apart in what could only be a tiger's smile.

It is an enticement.

It is an equivocal thing, this venom-slathered brutality in sharp spearing fangs. There is no passion in this, yes; hot, stained in bloodlust's heavy carmine gradations. Is there love, also? Is there affection?

A step.

A step.

Urging her closer.

"I- I feel so weird about this, Ran, y'know? Like... Is it _really_ m-my first an' stuff?"

"What?" A blink; slowly, slowly, slowly. The images coalesce in their novel intellectual constellations; it is not for language to vanish, but only to be eclipsed. It is its slow achingly languorous and ignominious demise.

Touch her, touch her, touch her; fingers outstretched and slipping through her hair, lacing up up up along cheeks softer than butter-slathered cream. Pallid; sumptuous. A kiss, a kiss, once and again and again and again.

Knowing its hunger, blunt, thick, crude, delectably brutally _feminine_ in its lusts, an indelicacy that still is not the male's fundamental coarseness. It is only to know candor; it is a forthrightness, a _sincerity_. Not merely brushed but ground now, again, again, again, her her hips and her lips, also, a merciless and relentless and implacable fervor. The eyes are candider than any language; tongue tugged between my lips, once and again.

Breath animates the flesh; flesh directs the breath. It is circuitous, recursive, Ouroboros or perhaps the Jörmungandr. She is as we must be, daughters of Sorrow's Herald. To hell with the Æsir; fuck them all. To hell with the Jötnar. Crush them all. To Hel with every one, and everything. It is to know the perfected generational divide that surpasses all others.

Devour them. Invite the Götterdämmerung now; gorge yourself upon the Ragnarökr's inexpressible perfection. All must die; all must be annihilated.

Know the transcendence that is the truest Progress. It is not yesterday and today conveyed into the future; it is to savor your fingers fastened around what is not a button at all, but only a trigger. The keys are not bronze but imperishable alloys; The End slumbers in the cold concrete tucked into the planet's bosom, a strange and unreal fistula carved into its bowels. Its Agent lurks there; its variegated violence, dozing with expectation of an End that we have persuaded ourselves is not desired.

It cowers behind kennings; behind Mutually Assured Destruction; behind New Look; behind Sword And Shield; behind _apocalypse_. Ah, ah, ah, who craves the distinction of being the one to Push The Button and liberate annihilation for Mother Nature's misfortunate folly, the wicked children that have imprisoned her in her own flesh? Who covets this recognition?

But who will be remembered? It is a fundamental madness; insanity is its only asset. Who will dare attack when retaliation, absolute and _total_ , is the only possible repercussion? Is it? Is it? Does it fucking _matter_ when Chernobyl, thronged with animals that will serenade with the Geiger Counter's sharp staccato like a coked-up flamenco dancer, will be appropriate for _us_ in about thirty thousand years?

When the radiation will settle in its venomous seeds littered through the planet?

Would it matter otherwise?

Who will Push The Button?

Fail Deadly. This is our only remedy. Will the thirty-year-old whose wife and children have become irradiated ash, sobbing in the bunkers laced into North Dakota and Colorado and Washington and Vermont and through the vast Russian steppe and tundra answer this command? Will they consign all to an infinite darkness?

Will it even matter?

We must summon the Dead Hand and not only beckon but simply _command_ The End. This is our passion, our need. Let them crest the horizon, great lances wrought from scourging nuclear fire borne aloft upon golden shafts. We must become Gods; at long last, We Shall Be As Gods. We will know the infinite power, the _omnipotence_ , in self-immolation. Ah, ah, El, or perhaps Yawheh, or Allah, or God, or _an_ Ilah or Divinity or whatever the word is to be, the petty confluences of syllables, _this_ was from what we were being sheltered.

God's wisdom of _nothingness_. The Darkness that will wreathe; the _anguish_ in a knowledge of differentiation, and the cruelty in parting.

But slap at the button.

Tug the trigger.

Rejoice and laugh and let your fingers lace with your lovers' and admire the flames climbing higher and higher and higher into the endless abyss that lurks beyond Gaea's ambit. They will tumble down, down, down, ultimately, ineluctably, because this is their destiny. Because the cold implacable unblinking eyes that are our contribution to the future, the javelin that our great industry has hurled into another time, will only know this.

Because their solid state minds understand only this simple destiny.

Are we apart from them? Is our programming anything but its own bounded delusion? Creativity is a myth; novelty is a figment. It is our _belief_ that it is that will ultimately fuel its truth. Consensus, you understand. Consensus. Consensus.

Ah. Ah. Poor Lieutenant Coleman. He wouldn't pull the fucking trigger, so _I_ pulled it for him, you understand. His brain's adorning the screen; but there's no need for literacy now when the libraries will become ash, when you can waft our collective history into your lungs, drink it down when there's Time Enough For It All now. Ah, ah, how beautiful it all is.

Admire the blood.

An effulgence twinkling from a satellite; a spear of hellfire. Is it a Norwegian weather satellite or is it a nuclear strike against Moscow, and does it even _matter_ anymore? We will pull the trigger. Grigori, pull that fucking trigger! Right now!

Pull the trigger.

We are playing a game. Russian Roulette with every chamber filled. There is nothing _cryptic_ about the silos, about the billions and trillions of dollars and rubles and francs and euros and pounds and yen and wong and renminbi we have invested in these things.

The launchers are poised and the missiles are fueled. Cryogenic breaths speak of a will cooled and staid for tomorrow.

Fire them _now_.

Fire, fire, fire.

Beautiful.

Have you seen it? It is our national trauma; it is our Original Sin. Our Creation myth, ultimately. We are the People of The Bomb; it is _our_ shadows that silhouette the Nuclear Age. Poor J Robert Oppenheimer. Your name means fucking _nothing_ at all; you should've had a name like Edward Teller. A man with the wisdom to understand the nuclear is best when it's thermo, when Moscow is most beautiful when it's twinkling with Cherenkov radiation, when Washington, DC, will announce a victory party with the world's last two men or women or man and woman scrabbling through the debris and tasting not the sun's spearing blindness but the absolute _darkness_ in Imperishable Winter, in the dust that is not merely dust but soil, but billions and billions and billions of tons of it, perhaps _trillions_ , that have been borne aloft on our hubris' breath.

Scream with bliss!

We've won!

We've vanquished ourselves.

The Last Enemy That Shall Be Destroyed.

What does any of it mean?

Everything.

Our fundamental atavism.

Our _fear_.

Their collision; our wish not to be, and the simple twanging clutching biologic _compulsion_ to be, to heave this simple act of existence into the future that is meaningless for this act.

Kiss her, and kiss her, because we are alive.

We are happy because we are alive.

We will admire our blood, hot and red, spilling from our hands.

We are happy because we are alive.

We are happy because we will die.

Ultimately, ultimately, this is our wish, our ambition, to transcend this brittle husk, this meaningless meat, to raise aloft our voice into the Heavens and _scream_. To conjure the Ragnarökr, because this is our will. We will never be content with _this_ as it is.

Howl and wail. Laugh and laugh and laugh; know the junk straining through every vein. Kiss her, and kiss her, and kiss her, and only affront the absolute named god, or God, or every vagary and vicissitude in this. Touch the kami and wail to them that we will _not_ be bound by their imperishable ideal.

Ghost of the machine or Ghost of the forest, what the fuck does it matter? I will fasten my fingers around Inari's tail and tug 'til her fangs are brandished, 'til they draw blood, 'til I will fertilize the rice. I will wail and howl and convulse with laughter.

Pain. Pain.

"D'ya think," and it is to know her voice now, and _their_ voices, but have they ever really mattered? Are they here? Ah!

A sumptuous bit of fantasy for you.

They're not real at all.

Mom.

Yuri.

Yukiko.

Oh, these enchantingly cushioned walls, this designer straitjacket. Is it Vera Wang? Ah, if you would, please, just _slaaaacken_ it a bit so the label can... Ah, there we are. My fangs spearing through your throat.

You are dead.

And they are dead. They are happy because they are dead.

And is my name even Ran?

 _Naaaaaah_.

Why bother with that? How could anyone aspire to care? Laugh, and laugh, and laugh.

"Just, like, I mean... Does this make me, um, a virgin again or somethin'?" There's only the will to tease.

For the needles to gather in a vast perforating swarm.

But there is not this.

"Ngn... You're so _adorable_ , Yuri- _chi_. Does it matter? Virginity's just something fabricated, anyway. Something manufactured. If some old bastard in a Faulkner novel could get it, I'd _hope_ anyone else could. Paternalistic shackles for a culture cowering in the shadow of gods, you know, darling."

Kiss her.

Kiss her.

"I- I just... I've got kinda a virginity fetish." Scarlet pricking up through the cheeks.

"Cherry-hound-"

"N-no. I mean, _my_ virginity being taken. I just... I kinda wish now that I hadn't given it up, y'know? 'cause... 'cause this's just fucking _incredible_ -"

"Then it's your, oh, well, a cherry is such a _prosaic_ fruit. What about your guanabana-"

"I can take that." Laughter, laughter, a sumptuous sonic madness, sonorous in its velvet waft like fragrant smoke through the ears. "I think I'd _love_ that-"

"Thick and creamy." Clutch it now; feel the flesh _yield_ under your fingers. "It's monstrous, you know. I'd rather have this inside me-"

"Ah, ah, _ah_ , Ran- _musume_." Mom's voice a husky hot admonition. "Can't you even conjure a _bit_ of empathy for Yukiko- _tan_ 's poor cruelly deprived cunt? It's just been _steeping_ in cum today; for hours and hours and hours.

"Without _relief_. Only being fucked _once_ ; only being filled _once_ with _mine_. And, well, for a whore like Yukiko- _tan_ -"

"T-that's right! Yukiko- _tan_ can't take it anymore!" Breathless.

A legitimate madness; a carnal psychosis that strains and heaves and _flares_ through her chest's heavy dusky effusion.

"Yukiko- _tan_ needs it, needs it, needs it. Please, please, _please_! Fuck her; fuck Yukiko- _tan_. Her thighs are already open for you, you know, Yuri- _himei_. You've always fantasized about it, right?" It's something profane, isn't it?

An _affront_ to that regal hierarchy.

 _You_.

"Ngn..." With eyes darker than merely _black_ in their liar's blue; with an enticement purred and poured from lips slathered in pallor more than merely suggestive. It is lust's essence; cum's fine soft perfumes rear up, _swaddle_ the senses. "Won't Yuri- _himei_ fuck Yukiko- _tan_? Yukiko- _tan_ _**needs**_ it; Yuri- _himei_ 's never had a woman like _this_.

"Yukiko- _tan_ is absolutely _**filled**_. Yuri- _himei_ 's big big _ **humongous**_ cock will just... It's not for a little girl. It's for _Yukiko- **tan**_. It would _destroy_ even Ran- _sama_ ; it'd ruin _anyone_ else who can't take something so vast.

"But not Yukiko- _tan_. Eri- _chenchei_ has prepared her. She's _ready_ ; she's more than just _wet_. C'mon. C'mon. Here. Here. Would Yuri- _himei_ like to see-"

"C-call me _you_. Please." And it's so fuckin' _obvious_ , ain't it?

The simpleminded cock-fueled surrender to _this_.

To the thighs splayed, lean and firm and curvaceous, shimmering with creamy stockings translucent with sweat and quivering with craving; the high high high high slut heels jabbed into the mattress; the nacreous silk sublime in its irrevocable defilement curtaining her tight soft sable skin.

"C'mon, then, _Yuri-himei_. Yukiko- _tan_ wants _**you**_ to fuck her; to _hammer_ her. You don't need to be gentle with Yukiko- _tan_ ; she loves it _rougher_ than you can probably take. 'til her hips are going to come off. Eri- _chenchei_ doesn't like it gentle, either.

"C'mon. C'mon. _Pweeaaase_."

"R-Ran, um, is... Is it..." It's meaningless, isn't it?

That _askance_.

"Are you seriously _asking_ me, Yuri- _chi_ , or just begging for a little validation? Your cock's pretty candid." A _squeeze_ ; it's an exercise in the surreal, admiring the heavy bloated meat simply dimpling, distending.

A squeal rearing up from trembling wet lips.

"A-ahn! It's- it feels so good. I- I wanna fuck her; I wanna fuck her _so_ much. I just- it's one of my fantasies. Sloppy _whatevers_ -"

"Eights. Or tenths. Or... Hell, it's a little difficult to remember. Senior moment; or maybe just that I've pumped _so_ much into her nasty cunt, it's not really _worth_ bothering with all the little increments." Mom's more than _diabolic_. "I _do_ know that it feels incredible.

"When we're with trustworthy guys or girls that, ah, I can gift with that, well... It's amazing when you just _bury_ yourself in that huge thick ocean. It splashes up. It _coats_ fucking _**everything**_.

"To be swallowed by that. Wouldn't you just _love_ to taste it, Yuri- _chan_?" It is to know the simple expertise in the mind, in the soul, conjured as fingers, _twisted_ around the raw nerves and the rasping convolutions in the spirit that could only surrender, could only quiesce to this will made manifest. Hitler or Stalin or even fucking Franco, what does it matter when the only craving _is_ submission?

"Ngn... It's- Ran- _chan_ , it's really okay?" With eyes some vanishingly tiny temporal micron from just _spraying_ from their sockets.

"It's fine; it really is. It'd be a little hypocritical, right?" And how can the Tyrant not admit the simple asset in equanimity's figment? "For me to just _jam_ it into Eri, for her to fuck _me_ , and then complain about you?"

"'s just, I mean, like... I'm- I'm the kinda girl who _loves_ feeling... Feeling that jealousy, I guess?"

"What a delicious little cuckquean you are." Fingers _adore_ her; stroke the cheeks and tumble down down down. "But I'm not really the jealous type; jealousy quickly becomes envy. And I've already known more than enough envy in my life.

"I don't mind. Just as long as _I'm_ allowed to admire it-"

"Yeah, yeah, _yeah_!" Exuberance; insanity in this. "Fuck, yeah, 's- 's what I _want_. You should... You should, um, maybe guide me, y'know? _Make_ me do it-"

"Aren't we submissive?" Or is it a plea for responsibility's abdication, to announce, _It's not my fault!_ for even the most trivial deed?

"Ngn... Kinda? Yeah? 's just, I mean, if... Don't you want me to be honest, Ran?"

"Immensely-"

"Then I'm _seriously_ submissive. M-maybe not like, um, Yukiko, but, ah, I'm pretty much... It's sorta-kinda my fantasy to just- just be _used_ , y'know?" Hungry; hungry.

Ravening.

There is only the gut's relentless heaving boil, thick not with venomous bile but lust's scalding immensity. Fingers laced with mine.

A kiss; slowly, slowly, the kiss is not merely savored but _coalesces_ , lips upon lips, mouths upon mouths, tongues laced together with sticky wet exuberance. Hot, hot, hotter than hot; an intensity in the body, in the flesh. Hunger in the meat, straining, taut, convulsive now with lust that is not male and not a man's but only incarnate in those strange mythic tissues that still unfurl tangibly from the body.

That are still grafted into the neurology; still its _essence_. Do not question the sorcery. The wizard does not lie behind the curtain, but only brandishes herself, and she is a glorious sorceress, isn't she? A kiss; the heads simply brushed together in a sharp shocking graze. Once. Again. Again.

Her eyes quiver; sight has not abandoned mine, but is only content to consign itself to meaninglessness.

A will to stroke; to touch.

To plunge a hand between your thighs; to _grind_ them together in a coruscating electric frenzy.

"R-Ran, that- that feels _so_ fuckin' amazing. I just... I wanna come; I already wanna come. I'll get you all wet-"

"Hey, hey, _hey_ , daughter." And there is only Eri's brutal will animating this. "Don't waste her first _very_ thick load-"

"Since when is it a waste to paint _me_?" The smile is the wolf's; it should be curtained in a heavy velvet mist. "Ngn... Would you love _that_?"

"I wanna come inside you, Ran! I wanna come _on_ you. Your- your girlcock's so fuckin' pretty. And it- it looks so _small_ next to mine-"

"A bazooka looks small next to yours." Kiss her again, again. "Or would you _really_ rather just plunge into that nasty thick morass-"

"I wanna feel it. My first. It'll just- it's so strange. I can't, um, like, can't _control_ myself." Chest heaving with breath that could probably inflate a fucking zeppelin. "Wanna do it; I wanna just- just _pound_ her."

"Then do it. Don't blame _me_ if her sloppy pussy's a disappointment." A sigh, a sigh, a sigh. And it's... It's not with _horror_ ; no, no. Not with revulsion. A step. Once.

And again.

Palm clasped on her shoulder.

It is an inverted firing squad, the shooter being marched to the courtyard in its velvet-curtained grandiosity, its simple lavish allure; the uniform is sweat-darkened lingerie and high high high heels. Trembling; quivering.

Eri's fingers outstretched now; a _brush_ over Yukiko's dusky thighs, along the creamy delectation in pallid stockings drawn tight and lucent over the tight lush skin.

And now, now, fastened around the familiar plug.

A brush.

A twist.

It's... It's fucking _incredible_. Both of us now, straining with the lust's irrepressible simpleminded need, those ridiculous palpitating bits of feminine fantasy made manifest. Yukiko's knees drawn up, up, up in some demented glimpse of the gynecological against her heavy luscious tits; more than only _tits_. There's only cartoon hyperbole, but it's a simple truth.

Water balloons straining with fat.

Melons.

Quivering; heavy; sumptuous. Her belly taut and her legs trembling and her pussy drawn up, up, up, peering at the ceiling. At _us_. The plug finally dragged out on fountaining desire, clotted in its alabaster effusion, the hot straining fuchsia coils not the familiar tumbling pink concentricities but only painted in pallid perfection.

A _pool_ ; quivering, nacreous, thick in its variegated textures, shot after shot after shot after shot. It's absolutely beautiful.

Pungent and still oh so sweet with mom's essence.

"Well? What do you think? Wanna taste?" Eri's eyes madness in a stare; a finger disturbs the puddle.

Yukiko's voice an articulated mewl.

A _sob_ with the first cum-smeared stroke on that throbbing hungry pearl.

"Y-Yukiko- _tan_ needs it so fuckin' bad! Fuck Yukiko- _tan_ ; fuck her; fuck her; fuck her fuck her fuck her! Yukiko- _tan_ needs a _**huge**_ girlcock to tear her in _half_!

"Fuck her cum-filled pussy!"

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Fingers laced around Yuri- _chi_ now.

A kiss whispers over her cheek.

My voice.

It's _my_ voice.

Thicker than gelatin.

A napalm diablerie.

"C'mon, Yuri- _chi_."

It's awe that it's not perfumed with brimstone.

"You should. Or should I just guide you there? It's your cherry, or at least your, ah, guanabana. Something hot and heavy and sweet. You've never had _anything_ , much less, well, _this_. She's dripping. I've done it with my _own_.

"Even Haibara with the Doc's. But this... And whenever I've fucked Ayumi- _tan_ , of course. But this's so different." A kiss maundering up up up along her throat's fine sleek grace. " _There_." A push.

A jab.

 _Impalement_.

More than wet.

Drenched.

More than violent.

Brutal.

Simply sinking down, down, down, tugged into the heavy leaden sticky morass; dragged into the creamy effusion that defies belief's vastest and most malleable boundaries in its elemental hugeness. There is an incredulity in all of this. This. This. That Yukiko's body could even _accommodate_ it.

"A-ahn! Ahn! Ahn! O-oh, oh, fuck, it's so hot; it's so hot; so fuckin' hot an' creamy an'... An' 's just... This's... It's so fuckin' weird-"

"You're too _**huge**_! You're ripping Yukiko- _tan_ 's pussy in half!" A scream; a wail; a madness in knees still ground against her tits' humongous quivering fleshly allure. Warbling; heaving; Yukiko's eyes could be mistaken for the Caribbean in duality.

Shivering; wheezing now with the first long slow _squelch_ from her.

Dragged out; plunged down again. There's not a simple tendril bubbling up; spattering _gouts_ rear up, spurt out, not meager droplets or teaspoons that carnal subjectivity could portray as cups but gallons, gallons, incredible and impossible abundance.

Once. And again.

Yuri is a spectacle of sexual elegance; borne aloft with knees sighing whispering sibilant with the stockings' sodden fabric over the darkening mattress; her spine is an artful arch, straining and heaving, her belly's roundness simply suctioned against the fine lean muscle.

"O-oh, oh, oh, I'm... I'm fucking you, Yukiko. Yukiko. It's so _fucking **hot**_ ; there's so much cum inside you. I can't take it; I can't fuckin' _believe_ it. You're-"

"She's _quite_ the cream pie, isn't she?" Eri's eyes are the blue-eyed liar's, also, aren't they? Everyone's; everyone's. Admire the simple relief in Yuri- _chi_ 's flesh in its deliriously animal profile, heavy, humongous, _stout_ , not merely plunging but plumbing, spearing and breaking and twisting and simply cradled in the clutching plump lips that grope and cling and aspire to purchase, and can only fail.

"A-ah! Fuck! You're scraping it outta Yukiko- _tan_." Yes. Yes.

Smeared over her hips.

Pooling around her ass' plump clefted abundance.

Yes.

Yes.

"I- I can't... I'm... I'm really, _**really**_ gonna come; I wanna keep it in, an' I can't! I'm gonna fucking _die_ if I don't come!" Well.

Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes more than manic, wheeling, trembling, shuddering, an act of relentless standing-wave convulsion while the strokes slow, slow, dim in their intensity, their height shorn to little more than the tiniest little pump, once and again and again. It's still to know an immensity defying anything like belief, that trivial increment three or four inches in its depth, pitching down and rearing up again.

"It's- it feels so good; I don't wanna come; I wanna come so _badly_. It's just..." Tongue lolling; eyes finally simply settling closed with lashes velveteen brushed over alabaster cheeks straining indigo in a sumptuous symmetry with the makeup's exotic strokes.

"O-oh, oh, oh, you- Yuri- _himei_ , it feels so fuckin' _amazing_! Yukiko- _tan_ can't stop herself from coming! Come inside Yukiko- _tan_ ; y'don't need to worry about being selfish-"

"I don't want to. Not yet; not yet; not yet." It's an affirmation. A mantra.

A hopeless helpless impotent _plea_ to the fates.

"I wanna keep going. I- I'll feel like such a total fuckin' loser if... It feels like it's been an hour; it's only been ten minutes, right?"

"Three." Eri's voice a mischievous little quirk in the ears. It's a fulminating hydrochloric acid sadism; a garrulous brutality that more than merely _bruises_.

 _Ouch_.

"T-three? Three? I- I don't wanna be one'a those... Um, dickgirls? That- that can only go for three minutes. T-that's, like, t-totally premature-"

"If you want to be technical, it's not premature if it's _after_ your partner has an orgasm." Eri's more than diabolic, isn't she? Fingers maunder and meander along Yukiko's thighs; an awareness of softness and firmness in their confluences dimpling, yielding.

"Ngn... T-that's, like, t-totally unfair, Eri. Eri. I- I wanna come-"

"Then _do it_!" A command; tyranny's figments lain bare.

There is no absolute power; there is no supreme control. Ultimately, ultimately, the kybernetik will falter; the order and the orderliness and the organization will break. Tyranny is to aspire to manufacture an artificial fiction.

All must be aligned.

The Wigner Effect is every tyrant's nemesis.

Once.

And again.

Convulsive and shuddering and there are quadrillions of mega electric volts, of course, coruscating through every inch; atoms are no longer aligned as they must be; their potential energy shudders and crushes down down down and there is heat.

Heat.

Groping around her.

Coils like a livid anaconda fastened around its _profoundly_ uncooperative prey.

"Yukiko- _tan_ will _**make**_ you come with her tight soft little pussy. 'cause it's not _just_ loosened up all nice an' sloppy with Eri- _chenchei_ 's cum." Insanity.

Insanity.

Because the natural slave now brandishes its fangs, and its ragged tunic is reversible.

It is now curtained in regal violet.

There is violence.

"Yukiko- _tan_ 's cunt can break fucking _rock_ ; a little virgin with a nice big _**cock**_ is no match for that. Yukiko- _tan_ 's amazed you survived for _this_ long inside her with all of Eri- _chenchei_ 's hot sweet cum. It's an aphrodisiac, y'know."

Jeebus.

Yes.

No apologies to Ayumi.

Jeebus.

"A-ahn! Ahn! I- I can't take it anymore, Ran. Ran. Yukiko! Eri! It's- it's coming-"

"Ah, ah, _ah_. What a naughty girl you are, Yuri- _chi_." And there's only the will to tease her, torment her. It's something so simple, ain't it? Palms _clapped_ on her hips' luscious roundness, sumptuous lips simply swollen like overripe blossoms, drooling a hunger that can be followed with animal fervor along a blood-trail up and up and up and up and it's only to _spear_ her.

Impale her in an instant; for perfection to conjure deeper perfection; more and more and more and there is only a berserker painterly grace like Gentileschi sodden with methamphetamine dosages that could fucking kill Hitler or Kennedy.

"A-ah!" A scream; a wail; a screech; an unequivocal perfection in this unreal communion, this rarefied and sacral geometry, while mom's fingers simply bite now into Yukiko's heavy delicious tits, knees drawn tight against her belly of her own volition while the universe melts down down down, while the walls simply crumple in their overwatered gelatin fallibility.

There is nothing _real_.

No Fool on The Hill to dictate this.

Farewell to everything.

Mother.

Father.

Havin' the big one, 'lizabeth.

" _ **Fuck**_!" Yes; yes; yes. We will cast away anything like poetry while the thunder rears up; while there's only a simple awe in tasting her flesh wound fastened _cinched_ around me, buried deeper than deeper than deep. To some sacred clichéd hilt; 's still there.

 _Swallowed_.

"I- I'm coming _everywhere_!" Yes, yes, yes. While you can _savor_ it in its bubbling convulsive frenzy; while the cum rears up, races through the flesh from its strange sainted reservoirs, while yin and yang and qi are twisted and swirled and harnessed and harvested and summoned into being.

While there's gawping awe with the _explosion_ like a ruptured whipped cream tank.

It's _spraying_ around her cock; a steroidal capillary effect.

Convulsive.

Roaring.

Squelching.

Huge shuddering thick tendrils don't merely lap and lick and drool down but simply _spray_ around her, pattering at her hips, more than only _staining_ the bedding.

"O-oh, oh, oh, motherfucker!" Yukiko's subservient delusions not abandoned, no, no; this is simply the most _fundamental_ submission. Orgasm, orgasm, orgasm, the delirium in eyes tumbling back into her skull, savoring the brain's exotic texture and gradation, strange wriggling glimpses of pallor and liar's blue in their vacillation, swiveling and wheeling.

Perfected in this.

All is.

"T-this's so amazing! There's so much cum; you're so huge; don't you dare dare dare _**dare**_ stop fucking Yukiko- _tan_! Deeper; harder; don't worry about coming too soon _now_ , Yuri- _himei_! C'mon; c'mon; c'mon, cum-princess!" Yes, yes, yes. Everything swarmed with lust; everything _smeared_ with it; long long long legs outstretched, battering, raking, creamy heels raked at Yuri's belly, drawn closer, closer, closer, _grinding_ around her hips, fastened at the small of her back.

An indifference to me; a will to rupture my stomach if there's no sense to be cooperative.

"More. More. More! Fuck Yukiko- _tan_ even harder! Do it! Do it! Do it!" Eri's eyes do not regard this with awe.

 _This_ is Yukiko's authentic essence, isn't it?

Wet.

Hot.

Pummeling.

Pounding.

Dragged in and out and in and out and torn through Yuri- _chi_ 's delicious soft sweet skin and there's only a conviction for more, more, more.

A heave.

A shudder. Orgasm is not something predictable in its patient mantling mountaineering elegances but only a convulsion; a thunderclap spearing down through tranquil afternoon skies, lightning not stirring with patient delicacy but simply _extant_.

In an instant, it's there.

"R-ran! Ran!" Craning to offer her lips; to _grope_ for mine.

It's reality inverted, isn't it?

For this moment, this delirious delicious instant, that carnal consummation, for it simply to be... To be _something that's happening_.

It's to know war's elemental essence.

Violence is devastating, isn't it?

Carnage? Death? Limbs sawn from the body; blood races and skulls crunch and the brain, the brain, that repository of the thoughts' convoluted electricity, our misfiring neurons' locus, bare in convulsion.

And war is simply for this to be normalized.

This is only one little death amongst a great wheeling swarm.

A quick pump; once, and twice, and again and again, knowing savoring adoring the shuddering the quivering the throbbing urgency that spits up that lust in its effusions, not quite _explosive_ with her violence, but nothing can aspire to transcend that without mom's sorcery renewed and embellished.

Nothing embroidered more.

"Y-you came inside me, Ran. Ran. Ran-"

"Y-yeah, I did. It's incredible; it's fucking amazing-"

"Yukiko- _tan_ wants a girlcock in her nasty ass. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon, Ran- _sama_. Ran- _sama_ ; do it do it do it do it. Ran- _sama_ wants to be buried in Yukiko- _tan_ 's sweet soft _perfect_ ass, right? It's so so so _so_ soft; so tight; so _delicious_. Filled with mommy's hot thick cum.

"Do it. Come in Yukiko- _tan_ 's ass." Yes, yes, yes.

"Yuri-"

"Don't fuckin' _ask **me**_ , Ran. J-just do it. Do it. I- I wanna do this; I always have these weird an' twisted gangbang fantasies, so _don't_ make me tell your mom to do it! I wanna dee-pee her."

"How _precocious_ we are, Yuri- _chan_." And mom is simply there.

There.

A wickedness in dark eyes; an untroubled mirth in all of this.

She is the Empress.

And the Empress' deepest wisdom, the Prince's or the Princess', let us be candid, is that power is something transient, something bounded. It is not an imperishable absolute; it is not to know an unbroken continuity racing out into the cosmos.

All is not control.

Entropy.

Order.

They are simply two faces of a Janus deity in our collective delusion.

One will grow as the other is watered.

Irresistibly; ineluctably; an explosive intensity in the geometric while the one to be nurtured, indulged, is merely predictable and slow and patient.

We will all be its victims.

More.

More.

Let the rockets climb high on their golden pillars.

Let The End arrive.

You cannot arrest it.

Rejoice.

 _Celebrate_.

Yukiko not dragged but only _tumbling_ in flesh's achingly elegant contortions, a dancer's ease in every quirk and pivot and twist, over Yuri- _chi_ 's hips, Yuri- _chi_ not so much poised as only _sprawled_ with a bleary cataplexy like an electrocuted carp on the sweat-blackened sheets .

"Hi, there, Yuri- _himei_. You're such a beautiful young lady, aren't you? Are you happy? Having _this_ nasty slut as your first? Yukiko- _tan_ is very, _**very**_ happy to pop your cherry, or, ah... Your guanabana, anyway." A lovely concession to reality's quirks on its axis.

Its twist.

"You're so so so _so_ hot inside me; you're not gonna just _shrink_ , are you?" There is not an answer; there _cannot_ be one. Not with a simple awareness in empathy's figments of coils taut and cinching and _grinding_ around that humongous heaving stalk; in Yukiko- _tan_ 's hips' slow exquisitely patient rise and fall and rise and fall.

"N-no, no, no, Yukiko- _tan_ -"

"That's the _ooonly_ rule. Don't just _go limp_. Yukiko- _tan_ is _over_ cocks goin' limp in her hungry pussy. Uh-uh- _uh_. That's not gonna happen. Is it?"

" _No_!" A squall; a squeal.

And mom is simply, well, _there_.

Gray eminence in stilettos.

"Aren't you going to take up Yukiko- _tan_ 's _**very**_ gracious offer, daughter?" Mom is here.

An urging.

An importuning.

"Well? Or should _I_? It doesn't matter to me-"

"W-what _are_ you going to do, anyway, mom?" The unreality in this.

In the language.

In the geometry; the flesh; the meat; the preconceptions broken like fine stained glass at your feet.

"Whatever appeals to me. I thought, oh, maybe I'd just introduce myself _much_ more intimately to your beautiful girlfriend. Her lips are there; so are Yukiko- _tan_ 's. Or just... Slip in. There's probably enough cum to lubricate my cock.

"Or yours. Yukiko- _tan_ can't get enough of being overstuffed-"

"Ngya!" It's crazed, yowling, some demented chimerical beast never quite tasted in biology's domesticities _warbling_ with heat. "Yukiko- _tan_ 's pussy's not jaded enough for that-"

"Oh, it is. I think you shouldn't _even **imagine**_ correcting your Mistress. Should you?" Er's palm a brutal hot _crack_ on an ass that could only be likened to a peach dappled with heavy autumn sunlight.

"Ngya! No, no, no, Yukiko- _tan_ 'd never do that-"

"Good. Good. 'cause I think I'm about to take myself up on my _own_ offer. Unless my lovely daughter would care for a little."

"I- I think I will." How can you refuse?

How can you reject the allure in this?

In the plug waggling like a docked tail; in the hot slick rubber beneath your fingers; in the deft tug that liberates not geysering cum but only a quivering still pool fragrant with a feminine purity that's to deny anything like the body's filth.

Touch her.

Touch her.

It's impatience; it's every other will, every other morsel of a glint of an instinct, abandoned in an instant.

Impale her.

In a moment, in a simple interval between breaths, you're _already_ there; palms poised on her ass; an exacting stillness; and it's there. Plunging, plunging, down down down down and savoring now the tight elastic grace stained steeped sodden _smeared_ with Eri's lust in its incredible effusion.

It is not an act of hyperbole; it is not to taste only the dilution in the word's meaning.

It is incredible.

It defies credulity.

It is awesome.

It commands awe.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

Falling deeper, deeper, deeper, knowing the scalding slick gelid bliss coiling up up up against me.

"It's _so_ lucky for all of us that you can't become pregnant from this, isn't it, honey?" And mom's just...

There.

Behind me.

A whisper against my nape.

"Isn't it, Ran- _chan_?"

"Y-yeah-"

"'cause about a _gallon_ of my cum's smeared on your soft tight little pussy now. Feel it." She's there; she's _there_ ; her fingers laced between us.

A brush.

A stroke.

And Yuri- _chi_ can be savored, also, that colossal bulk lurching with a merciless hungry pulsation in blood and carnal esurience through a layer that's little more than the frailest gossamer skein, straining and tight and _cinching_ around me.

Everything crushes.

Devours.

Eri's finger lacing into that, also; language has simply vanished with every thought sluicing from your ears, puddling in your collarbone.

"A-ah, ah, ah, ahn, _oooh_." Her finger's long slow stroke becomes a second; it's the unreality in being caressed _in_ that succulent bubbling haze.

It's to be tugged and kneaded and adored.

"Isn't that lovely, Ran- _musume_? Kiss me; kiss your mommy." And there is nothing but this; nothing else can be done while the bodies arch and strain and heave together; while electricity coruscates and arcs through the flesh.

While mom's lips swallow down every whimper and mewl and groan and growl and snarl and snap. While there's the hips' twist and the bodies' sway like a willow in a merciless roaring monsoon.

More. And more. And more. And more more more more more more.

What else truly can there be?

Coming.

Once.

And again.

Fill her; know it scraped and gouged and torn from her, the vestiges pouring deeper and deeper and deeper into Yukiko's belly, so so so fucking near to the Blue-Eyed Liar's genesis.

"Yukiko- _tan_ wants _more_ cock in my pussy; she fucking _needs_ it. Needs it, needs it, needs it!" Yes. Yes.

It's...

It's so simple, isn't it?

Yukiko's graceful quirk and twist and now, now, it's to savor her tits' heavy quaver, upturned and tumbling back to her chin in their enormity; her spine's sleek arch poised on Yuri's breasts in their lavish bulk; her belly taut and the navel a fine little divot and, yes, yes, this is our wisdom.

 _More_.

Poised at that portal, already snapped open, its boundaries shouldered aside, twisted, _ravaged_ with a bulk that absolutely awes, daunts, overwhelms in its immensity.

But there's still more, more, more besought.

So she will be indulged.

Planted there.

A strain.

A pressure.

A yowl like a kitten being fed through a meat-grinder from her throat's deepest reaches.

"Ngnyaaa! O-oh, oh, fuck, fuck, it's so _**big**_! It hurts; it hurts; it feels so fuckin' _**incredible**_! Yeah! Yeah! J-just rape Yukiko- _tan_!" Screaming.

Screeching.

Fingernails have become animal talons, gouging at the mattress' rasping sweat-blackened fabric; her heels tear and rake and heave and grate.

Kicking.

Convulsive.

"O-oh, yeah!"

"Yuri- _chi_ , you're- you're _there_!" Pitching deeper, deeper, deeper, knowing _my_ flesh in its fantastical impossible presence ground against hers, the plump bloated head laced up up up over its tremendous belly like an overfed whale.

And there's more, more.

Battering at Yukiko's cervix; at those strange lips that hunger cinch snap snarl.

"Yeah. Yeah. Ran- _sama_ 's in Yukiko- _tan_ 's pussy, too, now. Fuck heeeer!"

"Ran. Ran! This's- oh, oh, I'm- I'm coming again!" Yuri's eyes huge.

Trembling.

It's just...

It's _rearing_ around me; palpitating with a relentless pounding timpani rhythm, the juices tumble up up up against gravity's embrace, sloshing, spurting, spattering, and... And mom is there now, her hips jabbing, jerking, outstretched, behind me, and...

It's...

"Ngn, now _that_ is something mommy's always wanted to try." Yukiko's only answer is a scream.

And mine.

And Yuri's.

Because it's not even to grant anyone an instant.

 _Tearing_ between us; displaced and twisted and it's... It's her simple tyrannical will; it's her fingers twisted through my hair; it's to deny anything like resistance.

Could there be?

Pushed shoved _wrenched_ up; Yuri- _chi_ down.

Between us.

 _Tangled_ in a garden of flesh, sputtering with cum in its huge hot spurts.

"W-what the fuck?!" The dreamy dazed cock-addled eyes have _exploded_ into huge trembling puddles; a convulsion seams the cheeks, furrows the brows; there is only a gawping incredulity that's to deny anything like thought, the words burbling up from places distant, unknowable, evolutionary. A hungry groping awareness in pain and bliss and their boisterous swirling waltz, intertwined with a muddled mad promiscuity, an indifference to those simpleminded absolutes. "Eri- _chenchei_ , Eri- _chenchei_ , Eri- _chenchei_ 's fuckin' killing Yukiko- _tan_ 's pussy-"

"Oh, this nasty fuckhole can _cope_ , can't it, with a little triple-pussy? Even if it can't, well, that's just _Yukiko_ - _ **tan**_ 's problem, then, ain't it?"

And mine.

"Y-you're gonna break me, Eri! Eri!" Yuri's eyes immense.

Her voice is a modulated warble.

"That's what you're already coming again?" And it's true; it's true; it's true.

Another huge gout.

And mine.

Geysers flowering around us.

Eri's announced with a brutal hot _snarl_ that rattles and ricochets like a rocket-propelled pinball through my ears.

"Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. It's tighter than- than I can _take_!" More, more, more. Yes.

Eri.

Yuri.

Everyone at once.

It's...

It's simply slipping off to another place; it's the mind's shrug, languid, animated only with apathy.

 _I know there's no real need for **me** now. I'm knockin' off early tonight._

 _See ya, Intellectual Ran._

 _See ya, Instinct Ran._

Yes.

Yes.

Hammering.

 _Pounding_.

Because we are nothing but flesh; because we have melted down into little more than legs and lingerie and hair and breasts and heat and eyes and fingers and lips and everything is compartmentalized and everything roars and races and crashes together, a deity that's less dark and diabolic and mischievous and more a simpleminded brat hurling bodies together like a six-year-old with its toys.

More.

More.

More.

And there's a _warble_.

Yukiko's flesh not slackening, not yielding; only her body simply surrendering to bliss' huge overheating febrile psychosis; the eyes have tumbled closed, breath ragged and tormented and simply stilling to a quiet slow regularity.

"F-fuck, fuck, she passed out; Yukiko passed out-" Awe. Not incredulity; it doesn't defy anything like precedent, no, no, no, but it's only another bit of filigree in this carnal Fabergé.

"She does that sometimes, Ran." Laughter, laughter, hot and husky and sloshing through my ear.

Dragged from between us now; cum's rearing up in vast sticky threads.

 _Spearing_ me.

Pumping; lunging.

"Ah, ah, how can your tight delicious little pussy feel almost _loose_ next to that-"

"I- I can't take it anymore!" Screaming; screaming.

Yuri- _chi_ 's body in a strange shuddering convulsion; a half-palsied seizure.

"I'm gonna fucking _die_ if I keep at it like this! I'm going crazy." Her body is...

Is just vanishing.

Only my hips animated with mom's endless wet pummeling.

"Looks like she doesn't have the _yang_ to keep going, huh, Ran- _chan_?" Kissing, kissing, kissing, mom's mouth wet and sticky and sodden with gloss and spittle and scalding on my nape. "You're so tight; you're so _tight_.

"Weren't you pleading for mommy finally to _finish_ in you? It'll be like reenacting the conception-"

"You're diseased, Eri-"

"If you want it to be _perfect_ , I'll show you." Twisted; tormented; broken on her desire's wheel.

Yes.

Yes.

It's to know absolute _frailty_ ; it's to know your authentic _struggle_ beaten away, repulsed, because hers is not a banal and trivial strength. Inflamed with something legitimately supernatural.

There is a wail.

"M-mom, stop it-"

"No, no, _no_. You want it, don't you? You've been _begging_ me to rape you, haven't you? You've been anxious to rape mommy, right? She should give you a _proper_ tutorial in it, shouldn't she? Come on, Yuri- _chan_.

"Won't you delight Ran, also?" It's...

It's something fucking perverse.

Yuri- _chi_ 's eyes huge, trembling.

"A-ah, Ran-"

"Don't _listen_ to Ran right now, Yuri- _chan_. Ran's not listening; Ran's not allowed to listen; she certainly ain't allowed to _answer_. Who's the adult here?" It's debauchery.

Madness.

It's absolutely fucking _insane_.

The Kybernetik dies.

It _fails_.

I have aspired to order.

I am reaping the entropy.

It's being _hurled_ onto your back; it's knowing, tasting oh so palpably, mom's strength lacing rippling up through stern sinewy biceps and lean shoulders and I cannot and ultimately _will not_ compete. The struggle is not abandoned.

Every slapping bit of resistance; every moment that's invested in clawing at her arms.

"Just lie down, honey; just 'cause your pussy is wetter than I've ever _seen_ doesn't mean you need to act like a drowning cat-"

"S-stop it! Stop it, dammit-"

"Ah, ah, _ah_." Mom's, well...

It is.

It's _not_.

It is a dominion wrought in ambivalences.

In ambiguities.

This is not for a neophyte.

This is not for anyone, maybe.

I am not anyone.

Tremble; quaver; know that it's just...

It's _retreating_ ; with a quirk of the wrist, a twist of magic threads, it's just been _denied_ me, unlaced, unstitched, a quality like elastic being dragged from ragged panties' waist.

"F-fuck, Eri, you fucking bitch-"

"That's _mommy_ bitch, my little whore-daughter." And a palm crashing down, down; a wet hot awareness that there's probably her palm in negative tattooed on my cheek. There are no tears. Only a wisdom that your thighs are being splayed open; that her palms have introduced themselves to your wrists; that her _weight_ is a fucking battering ram.

And it's cruder than even that.

Yuri's?

It's a fucking _pygmy_.

It's more than enormous; it's mine and hers in their confluence and damn, damn, damn, they're grossly overfed in their fusion. _Tearing_ me in half; shouldering aside those walls; deeper, deeper, deeper, the thickness something preciouser than the length.

Who the hell _cares_ if it's at least three inches?

This is where delirium lies; where that lust's hungry root in the man's pantomime lurks.

Twisting through me.

A faint upturned cant; a graceful bow; and it's humongous. Brutal. _Squelching_ through me. Mom's eyes immense.

"You're such a _delicious_ little girl, you know."

"It _hurts_!" And it does.

"Like your first time-"

"F-fuck my first time, you cunt!"

"Is it? Is it?"

"N-no! I actually _like_ this." And it's the truth; the truth. Yes. Yes. There's pain.

It's the essence in oversatiation.

It's your belly _bloating_ with that sainted phrase, _All-you-can-eat_.

A fucking dessert smörgåsbord.

Yes, yes, yes.

Yes.

"I love it; I love it-"

"Having mommy rape you?" Does it even _matter_? When there's a sob working itself up through your lips, when your throat protests, when your belly roils, when bile holds hands and dances with desire?

When it doesn't fuckin' _matter_?

When fingers _bite_ into my wrists; when they're being fastened together now, dragged up up up over the cum-smeared mattress, brushed through the heavy tacky opalescent puddles, painted and anointed with its tingling perfumed heat; when there's another hand being laced around your neck?

What does it _**matter**_?!

"Fuck you, Eri! Fuck you! Fuck you! If you're gonna rape me, then do it! Just do it; rape me! Show me how I was conceived!"

"Oh, it was _rougher_ than this! I was gonna divorce your father for being such a _worthless_ philandering asshole. I couldn't take it anymore. So I hit him; I started beating the _**fuck**_ out of him." A squeeze; slowly, slowly, _slowly_ , nails and fine sleek fingers whose alabaster perfection is only mystic vanity _tear_ into the neck.

Breath lapses; resurrects itself with a gasp.

Eyes swivel and wheel; Eri is my universe now. Mom. Mommy. An effulgent corona in hypoxia curtains her; Yuri's fingers lunge with a relentless pummeling frenzy around her cock's vast bulk, its cartoonish real estate.

What otherwise can be done?

Stroking; touching; _adoring_.

Mewling with indulgence in this.

In what must be denied.

Lest we be One of Those People.

I am not.

Humanity?

Hah. Hah. Hah. Laugh and laugh and laugh. Humanity? _Human_? Please. Please. It's not to transcend or surpass it; it's to _deny_ it. Never to have even tasted purchase in this. Shrug away the head-shrinkers' affectations of wisdom, their Delphic mutterings.

Borderline personality disorder?

Transparent psychopathy?

Please.

Insurance pays you to jab your hungry ethically retarded tongue into my pussy, you stupid whore.

Not for your opinions.

Ah.

Ah.

"A-ah! Ah! Mommy!"

"That's _right_. I kept beating him 'til he _lost_ it! He kept confessing his love to me like we were in fucking high school; like I'd just _crushed_ poor poor Yukiko in the track and field race but _she'd_ conquered me in the beauty contest.

"What a fucking _farce_. No love for glasses girls, right, Ran- _chan_? And he kept confessing it, _Eri, Eri, Eri, I love you, so please forgive me! I'll show you how much I love you!_ Too fucking much liquor and too much lust and too much of your _dad_.

"I didn't know how strong he was; I'd always taken his weakness for granted. Then he started pulling up my skirt and tearing open my blouse. I just watched the buttons pop across the floor. He shoved it in me without even _asking_.

"I was screaming. _Crying_." Yowling and snarling and _hammering_ it now against my cervix's snarling protests. "I kept saying, _Stop_ ; but it was too fucking wet. I needed it. How do you say you're being raped when your arms are around his shoulders and your bitchy heels are digging into his back? Maybe it's poetic, right, Ran- _chan_?

"You're so beautiful. I almost wish I could knock you up; I almost wish I could help you fuck up another generation. But, _nah_. I'd rather just cream your nasty hole. He came inside me; I couldn't _believe_ it when he did.

"I didn't want a baby; I didn't want _you_. Not with a man who did _nothing_ but cheat on me and drink himself stupid and fuck up _his_ career." Pumping, pummeling, her hips _slapping_ at mine with every stroke. "I couldn't help myself.

"I couldn't help myself." Squeezing; squeezing.

Yes.

The Kybernetik is dead.

Because she isn't Order, is she?

Fuck.

She isn't Athena.

She's _Eris_.

How could you not have noticed the golden apple?

Twisting through me.

Rippling.

Wriggling.

"A-ah, ah, ah-"

"E-Eri, Eri, I'm gonna _come_!" Yuri's eyes humongous; the fingers are convulsive, kneading that ridiculous flesh like a brain-damaged flutist.

" _Really_? Then why don't you paint your new girlfriend? I think she could stand to use some more makeup. Don't you? Won't that be just _beautiful_ , Ran- _chan_?"

"W-whore. Whore. I'm- I'll show _you_ , mom, you fucking bitch-"

"I'll be waiting." It's...

Here.

Rearing up through me.

An explosion; an awareness of pocket thunder cradled in the hips, between my thighs. Heels _twisting_ around her spine, because there must be symmetry.

"Y-yaaaaaaaah!" This is my voice.

My voice.

Wailing.

And it's just _there_ ; mommy's displaced with that monstrous thing, that harrowing rearing presence like a fucking artillery gun, aligned and leveled and there's only the trigger to be pulled. There's only the last _stroke_.

"Well?! What the hell're you waiting for, Yuri- _slut_? C'mon; c'mon. Fuck me; fuck me; _cream_ me. Both of you! Take it; just _take_ what's yours. That's what's most important, isn't it? If you're strong, _take_.

"If you're weak, just _take_ it." Mommy's last pounding arch; her body's delicious distending ripple; a slow-motion madness in all of this.

It is theatrical.

It is not to serenade yourself with _Dies Irae_.

It is hammering heavy metal punk-perfection.

Yes.

Yes.

There's only this to be savored.

Flaring up through me; unfurling; unfolding; great feathery plumes spurting through that dark delirious place tucked between your hips, nestled in that delta that coils and rears up between the thighs.

Swarming me.

 _Filling_ me.

A scream. Silenced.

Because it's the last tether broken for Yuri, also.

The last seal opened.

Or something.

An awareness of her voice; of mom's.

Both at once; a crushing symmetry; and there's a spasm. The first obliterates sight with an explosion that _slaps_ at your brow, that slops over the eyes, that claims purchase in lashes trembling and shivering, a vacillating constellation in thick twinkling points; a swarm that laces itself through my hair; pummeling wet hot scalding smears simply sliding over the fine airbrushed makeup; down down down through lips that are wrenched open of their own volition, with the body's crazed spasms, with arms still shackled and legs _hammering_ at Eri's spine.

More.

More.

Vast gathering _mounds_ ; wads that settle over your eyelids; eyebrows simply clotted; lips not merely painted but enameled; everything, everything, _everything_ gathering in vast trembling slicks that can only puddle and pool and aspire to fill and adorn every mote and morsel and the most vanishingly infinitesimal proportions and...

And it's stopping.

An hour.

A year.

A protracted cum-swarming frenzy, and it's simply _finished_.

Shivering with mom's cock in its vast bulk dragged from me; a wisdom of heat like fragrant blood spilling over the mattress.

And Yuri is there now.

A kiss; a kiss; not _despite_ the cum but only with a profounder enthusiasm for it.

"Ran. Ran. Ran. I need you; I need you. I wanna- I wanna do it!" There is no answer, because there can be none. Rearing through me; endless trembling pumps and her tongue has lolled out, brushing through the cum's immense velvet mist.

Eri's, also, isn't it?

"Ngn... That's so amazing, Eri. Watching you drink my cum-"

"Well, it's delicious, you know." Shadowplay intuited through the plastering lust. In their lips slipping together; in Yuri's falling upon mine, and Eri's, also, a whimsical meaningless patternless alternation, once and again and again, force-fed the cum in its thick wadded enormity.

Yes.

Yes.

Again, again, the pearls and strands and threads and _pools_ pushed and shoved.

Swallowing.

Swallowing.

And...

"A-ah!" Yuri's eyes transfix; her lips simply smother with the cum's credulity-defying weight; her spine arching, body trembling to another rhythm. "I- I'm coming, Ran, Ran, Ran, I'm _coming_!"

" _Yes_."

This is the supremest and truest wisdom, isn't it?

Yes.

Yes.

This is the sublimest philosophy.

Whatever else can be said, whatever can be drafted in the imagination's endlessly vast horizons, ah, ah, _this_ is the truth.

 _Yes_.

Embrace the yes.

The desire fountaining and flowering.

The petals opening.

And...

And there is a silence.

Sprawled out atop me; tits heavy against mine; sweat slathers; lust lathers.

A kiss.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, there is a kiss.

Junk roils through the veins.

Push The Button, won't you?

Yes.

Yes.

There is only a wisdom of the room's wheeling insanities.

Eri's fingers brushed through hair self-evidently _sodden_ with cum; stained in creamy highlights.

"Well, daughter?" The eyes are not mirthful with a mischievous grace; there is only a hard-edged brutality as certain as any Black.

She is.

I am.

Yes.

"Well, _what_?"

"Gonna come and tear my pussy apart? Going to rape me with your cute little plastic toy-"

"F-fuck you." The universe is warmth; is arms laced around Yuri- _chi_ whose breath rises and falls with regular drowsy flits from her lips.

Dozing like an enervated puppy.

"Fuck you, Eri. You stole it from me-"

"It was my gift to you."

"Give it back-"

"You haven't earned it, have you? Now, if you _promise_ to practice your Alchemy, well, I guess I could condescend to give you a little incentive."

"Oh?"

"Yes. Won't you be One Who Feeds The Ravens? Not like your mother; no, no. I'm not one of them. But I know that _you_ are. She's not part of our world; she's too delicate. It's the difference between fine bone china and ceramic body armor." Murmuring, oh so patiently, slowly; the faintest of whispers that barely tingle the ears.

They are deafening.

"Fine. If that's what you want, mom. Then I will. You won't ever be expecting it, you know, when _I_ come. You _will_ be screaming; you'll be sobbing; you'll be _begging_ me to stop. It won't even be a playful little indulgence."

"I can't wait."

Darkness.

Silence.

The flesh resurrected; fingers taste and adore Yuri- _chi_ 's hair in its sweat-enameled elegances.

"Ngn... W-where'd your mom an' Yukiko go?" There is only exhaustion; only a bleary delirium staining her face.

"Ready for more-"

"N-no fuckin' way." It's horror; legitimate absolute _horror_. Adorable. "I- I mean, y'know, like... I thought I was a fuckin' nympho or somethin' 'cause, like, I can go for _hours_ with my vibrator. I wanna take a bath an' curl up like a puppy on your lap an' sleep for a _day_."

"Really? Not even to paint your girlfriend's face-"

"W-whoa, I mean, y'know... Ngn... It's..."

"Or her pussy-"

"Are you just reading my thoughts like a manga?"

"You're just more than a little predictable. So, _any_ bukkake drives you mad, huh?"

"Like, it's just... It's, um, like, y'know, _cum_ on a beautiful girl? I can't take it. Just, uh, start with the soles, an' go up from there 'til you hit the tiara she should be wearing like a beautiful princess. Or- oh, oh, I _love_ chicks in suits-"

"I never would've imagined."

And there is a kiss.

Slowly, slowly, there is a kiss.

And a wisdom of something coalescing in the abyss lurking beside your left lung, behind the ribs.

It is not warmth.

It is not growing three sizes.

Cold port throbs with the most succulent junk through the veins.

"I- I kinda thought our, y'know, _girlcocks_ would leave. How, ah, how're we s'posed to keep this stuff down when, like... We need to pretend to be normal?"

"Are we?" There can only be the lips' quirk.

"I- like, I dunno-"

"Normality is its own figment, its own preconception. In a world thronged with ghosts and demons and angels and horrors and wonderments surpassing imagination, it's remarkable how _far_ cussed hatred for imagination goes in keeping the people blind.

"I don't think you should worry."

"I'm kinda worried I'll just pop one an' start humping some beauty like a coked-up dachshund." Now this _is_ a hazard, ain't it?

"Mmm... Then you should study Alchemy with me, shouldn't you, darling?" Kiss her.

Again.

Again.

"And I can _definitely_ exhaust you." A brush; stirring, stirring, it's to know the bulk that's been lavished with mom's will.

Enormous. Cartoonish. Comic. Vengeful, even in her equanimity.

We will drink the entropy.

Push The Button.

Stand upon the mountain's great ragged balcony, and admire The End while its fingers rear up into the night. We will offer ourselves as sacrifice to the Great Rite.

We will laugh and laugh and laugh while darkness curtains the world.

Isn't it all so beautiful?


End file.
